======================================== *** THE INNER SWINE *** Volume 4, Issue 4, December 1998 www.innerswine.com ======================================== Life is just one damned thing after another. - Elbert Hubbard CONCEPT BY: Jeff Somers, Robert Gala, Ken West, Jeof Vita; COVER ART (usually) BY: Jeof Vita; EDITOR: Jeffrey Somers; PUBLISHER In Absentia: Cassie Moore; WEBMASTERS: Jeof Vita, Ken West, my own bad self; ADVICE & FREE DRINKS: ; PROOFREEDER EXTRAORDINAIRE: Karen Accavallo; OVERALL OFFICIAL COOL CHICK: Lauren Strutzel OFFICIAL CHESS OPENING: The Blackmar-Deimer Gambit, which we have used to moderate success in our amateur games although we get a little muddy on the tactics after 5 ... NB8-C6. FRIENDS OF THE SWINE*: Lauren L. J. Strutzel for one night of passion I’ll not soon forget; Ken West for another night of passion I’ll not soon forget; Rose Ann Haberman for hiding me in her basement those three days in August -you saved my life, Rosie!; Jeof Vita for forging my Mom’s signature during the House Deed Debacle in September; My Mom for not prosecuting; Misty S. Quinn, Esq. for showing me her breasts, even if it took thirteen Tequila Fanny Bangers; Lynn Shuttleworth for purchasing 23% of TIS stock with a mighty cashier’s check for $35,678; Elizabeth Augoustiniatos for bailing me out of jail back in November after I let my guard down in that Tijuana brothel -we’ll have our revenge, baby; Sean Somers for having the guts to tell me the true story of my lineage; The Nobel Laureats for not doing anything while they illegally drove my stolen car around Jersey City; Cassie Moore for not hitting me in the face during our DeathMatch back in October, and for buying me dinner with her purse; Karen Accavallo for writing such an amazing article for us; Microsoft and Bill W. Gates for purchasing The Inner Swine in November and thus saving us from financial disaster -look for TIS 99 coming soon, featuring Spellcheck! ======================================== TABLE OF CONTENTS ======================================== EDITORIAL: "Pig In Shit #13: Traveling Music for the Mentally Challenged: The Inner Swine Advice Column" BIG BAG OF BULLSHIT: "All You Zombies: The Inner Swine’s Big Freakin’ Conspiracy Unification Theory" COMMENTARY: "Lies Brandon Tartikoff Told Me" COMMENTARY: "The Ice Weasels Are Living in My Pants: How to be an Expert at First Glance" INTERVIEW: "10 Questions with Jeff Somers" COMMENTARY: "American Wedding Confidential #7" COMMENTARY: "Strangers Amongst Us: Smart Vs. Delusional in Today’s Society" RAVING: "Like Ma Bell I’ve Got the Ill Communication" PARANOIA: "The Mitnick Technique: Sowing Fear and Loathing on the Internet" COMMENTARY: "You Can Live On Ramen Noodles for $200.00 A Year" FICTION: "Charlie O’Brien Lights a Dramatic Cigarette" ---------------------------------------- The Inner Swine Volume 4, Issue 4 The Inner Swine Volume 4 Issue 4. Magazine published March, June, September, and December by Oinking Sow, Inc. © 1998 by Jeff Somers. (There is no company, really) Individual subscription rates: $5.00 (cheap!) per year in U.S.; $6.00 (cheap!) per year foreign including Canada. Single Copy $2.00 (cheap!) plus $1.00 (cheap!) for postage and handling if ordered by mail, but stop teasing me, you’re never going to order a subscription, you heartless bastards. Free trades are absolutely entertained, send me something, and I will mail you treats. Checks payable to Jeff Somers, Editor. Address submissions and correspondence to Jeff Somers, The Inner Swine, 293 Griffith Street #9, Jersey City, NJ 07307. But if you send me something, make it good or I will be angered. All submissions or requests for Guidelines (there are no guidelines, though) must be accompanied by S.A.S.E. When people actually send me stuff I get so excited I often make lurid passes at the lovely Misty S. Quinn, Esq., which she usually enjoys (see figure 1). ======================================== WHAT THE FUCK'S BEEN GOIN' ON? ======================================== JUST ABOUT EVERYTHING in this issue is a lie. I’d say about 99%, actually, which really is up from our usual level of about 96% lies. The only pages I think you can rely on to be truthful are this one and possibly page 60, but I can’t swear to anything. This all seemed like a good idea back when I cobbled 4(3) together in August. But lying this much is pretty freakin’ hard, piggies. Since that momentous occasion, lots has been happening, you know. First off, I started reading The Jargon Lexicon (http://sagan.earthspace.net/jargon/) and that led eventually to a decision to learn about computer systems, which in turn led to the realization that Microsoft has been screwing me on a daily basis with its crufty Operating Systems, which in turn led to a decision to install a UNIX O/S on my hard drive. Easier said than done: after an epic battle with Windows 95 which left me bloodied and psychologically damaged, I managed to wrest one stinking Gig from Bill Gates’s clutches and install BSD Unix on the partition. This SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN AS HARD AS IT WAS. Microsoft is evil. Case closed. By the way: some of you may note that Jeof Vita did not draw the cover for this issue. The rumors on the internet blame this on my ‘lust for power’ and some ‘drunken brawl’. These rumors are not true. What is true is that Jeof made a poor choice of computer. And that’s all I’m gonna say. Your Editor’s car was stolen back in October, too. At first I suspected Microsoft, in revenge for breaking their hold over my hard drive. I wandered out one Sunday, undoubtedly hungover, scratching myself in public, to discover my little Toyota Camry had been removed from its parking spot by two individuals who I will refer to as The Nobel Laureates. The Laureates used some sort of master key to start my car without having to crack the ignition, and then used my noble chariot to drive around blasting the stereo, smoke cigarettes, and go through the McDonald’s Drive-Thru about six million times. They forgot a few car-thief basics though, necessary for eluding capture: - changing the license plates - changing the license plates - and changing the license plates I consider this to be an aspect of car thievery so basic even I know better. But the Laureates made it pretty easy on the cops by not bothering to switch plates with some other blue 87 Camry, and were apprehended within 18 hours, minimal damage to my car. God bless the Jersey City public school system! Crazy Like Karen Dept: next person who asks me when the next issue comes out I will murder and eat their brains ritualistically. How hard is it to keep track of a quarterly? How many otherwise intelligent-seeming Americans can’t do simple math? For the last time, gentle readers: MARCH, JUNE, SEPTEMBER, and DECEMBER. That’s also 3, 6, 9, and 12. All submissions should come to me no later than the 15th of the month prior to the month of publication (unless you’re a close personal friend who also happens to be a chick, in which case my resolve tends to melt in your pretty eyes). ======================================== THE LOVEFEST 1998: Heres what they're saying about ME: ======================================== MAXIMUM ROCKNROLL checked in again with another favorable review of The Inner Swine. Praise always makes our palms sweat, and we must resist the urge to insult MRR until they hate us, cause stuff like this could cause us to completely lose our edge: "Who in hell doesn’t appreciate cynical humor? Nobody I know. I mean, damn, Jeffrey Somers could write about anything (and practically does), and it would be fun to read. In this issue he writes about himself (of course), growing old, why morons should get held back in school, why new York radio sucks, Coen Brothers’ Films and getting plastered with friends. Hilarious and interesting to read. I don’t know if I agree with some of his sentiments, because sometimes I can’t tell whether he is scoffing or really means what he says. Either way, I fucking love this guy, and I think you should check this out." (review by Travis T). Yikers; at least my carefully cultivated air of mystery remains intact. A funny thing happened on the way to the cynical comment I was going to write here: I actually found myself reading MRR. Naturally having my own name in there went a long way towards getting me to read it, but usually other people’s stuff bores me, especially when it concerns local music scenes I am 3000 miles away from. Surprise! Some of this stuff is really interesting and pretty well written. I especially enjoyed the article on alternative feminine hygeine products for those upset by Toxic Shock Syndrome or recycling issues and the article about the Generator Punk Rock Shows in San Francisco, and share that writer’s amazement that such things happen all the time in today’s sad, modern world. Although 50% of the magazine is still dedicated to bands I’ve never heard of, I enjoyed this and you probably will too. And I am only half saying this because they gave us a good review, I swear. Maximum Rocknroll POB 460760, San Francisco, California 94146-0760. Boris Yeltsin wrote us to say "Maybe it’s the vodka talking, but the fake nude of Jeff Somers I saw in issue 4(1) was the most beautiful thing in the world! I invite Jeff and his zany American cohorts to come visit me in Moscow. Come quickly; my time here is limited." Being a patriot, I naturally refuse this invite and gladly tell our Ruskie comrade to enjoy the fruits of capitalism, i.e. gangsters, unemployment, and eventual mob rule. Some guy named Russell sent me his zine called Dance Party, which is apparently a zine dedicated to the love of dancing in whatever form suits you best. The Inner Swine rarely dances, but at least these guys offered a free trade instead of a mealy-mouthed demand for a review, the fascist overtones of which disturb my gentle nature. I can’t recommend a zine which features articles on the dancing in Ally Mcbeal, but I can’t say it’s badly done; the writing is clear and entertaining and the whole thing has an innocuous, good-natured feel to it. Check it out if you also find yourself wishing all the world was a disco. Dance Party, Cool Bean Press, 715 Duncan Avenue #811, Pittsburgh PA 15237. Salman Rushdie wrote me again asking me to kill him, since he knows I need the money. I didn’t take it seriously. Salman gets drunk on Plum Liqueor every few weeks and calls everyone he knows asking them to kill him for the money. We just laugh now. The rubes at Psycho Carnival sent me a free trade issue with a nice little note. They only asked for a trade, which was nice. I didn’t get around to reading them, for some reason, but did get a kick out of the "pop-up" art in the centerfold. I don’t think I’ve ever seen an amatuer "pop-up" before. Pretty cool. Overall, the zine seems to have some purpose although, as I said, I wasn’t inspired enough to discover what that might be. Anyone who wants to find out for themselves (and see the really cool "pop-up"!!!) should write to 406 Park Place Ct., Lawrenceburg, IN 47025-1379. Ken Bausert of Passions (sample copy: $3.50, Ken Bausert, 2140 Erma Drive, East Meadow, NY 11554-1120) sent me their latest copy with a little note wherein he warned me of an upcoming review of The Inner Swine in his own publication, "although I know what you think of ‘reviews’" This made me consider my own attitudes, because as some wags have cheerfully pointed out, despite my anti-review stance I do seem to prattle on about other zines an awful lot on page 5. So let me clarify my stance to those who care: I respond to correspondence in the pages of this gleeful collection of bad karma. I don’t review zines, but I will usually mention an opinion of a publication if they take the time to write me, instead of pasting a "review me!" sticker on the front cover and leaving it at that. And, the big bonus, if you actually review TIS in your zine you can count on a detailed message in the next issue of TIS, because I feel a review is a form of correspondence. How do I justify not doing reviews but encouraging others to review me? This is The Inner Swine, bubba. If it ain’t about me it does not get into the issue, got it? As I have said many times, if you don’t like go off and create your own zine, and then sit alone in the dark reading it by yourself. Lynne Shuttleworth sent us cash, so we love her. By the way. Tom Lupoff from Desert Moon West sent me a nice email: "Thanks for the new issue of The Inner Swine, it’s swell to thumb through- although I’ll be passing on it for newsstand distribution. DesertMoon doesn’t handle titles with a price of under $2.95 anymore and we also hesitate to take on any title that isn’t the standard sized format. I dig the attitude though." The Inner Swine doesn’t pander to the LCD, baby! We make it as difficult as possible for the common man to enjoy the fruits of my damaged cerebellum. And the common man, we’re sure, sighs in deep relief. Some guy named Jordan emailed us to say "I was corrupted by your zine recently... I laughed, cried, vomited, and committed mass murder all at the same time. I recieved issues 3/2 and 3/3 at an ALL AGES show that our friend Wes Hegg put on. Keep up the great work. and also is it possible to purchase back issues? say hello to a new subscriber (that’s right, the cheque’s in the mail!)" My goodness we’re popular. Money money money and yet I can’t afford to drink at my accustomed level. Life is unfair. By the way, fans, your Editor here heartily encourages you to start reading The Parking Lot is Full and to get on their mailing list. When these guys contacted me years ago with a couple of sample comics I was immediately drawn to their lovably bizarre take on the universe. Their comics never fail to intrigue me, even if I sometimes don’t get it, and when I do get it I’m often blown away. The PLIF that appears on page 59 of this issue, friends, is one of the best things I’ve seen in a while. Their email updates are twisted, convoluted, and absolutely entertaining. Check ‘em out! www.plif.com. Jesus Christ appeared unto me in a vision the other day, sitting at my kitchen table, eating chicken wings from an apparently endless bucket. We talked about baseball. Then he was gone. When I woke up my kitchen was spotless and gleaming, it was so clean. Pilgrimages to my kitchen can be arranged through the usual channels. ======================================== *** EDITORIAL *** Pig in Shit #13: Traveling Music for the Mentally Challenged: The Inner Swine Advice Column by Jeff Somers ======================================== DEAR JEFF: In the last issue of The Inner Swine you told us that everything in this issue would be a lie. Is this true? What exactly constitutes a lie these days anyway? And how come you don’t print fake nude photos of Bea Arthur any more? ---Curious from Evanston Dear Curious: No, not everything in this issue is a lie, of course. I was forced on occasion to actually tell the truth. This of course makes that statement from the last issue a lie, which I think makes up for this sort of false advertising. The question of "what is a lie" is very interesting, however; Is a lie simply anything that turns out to be untrue? We at The Inner Swine Institute of Bizarre Research disagree. Sometimes people say things they believe to be true, so even if they are not these people are not liars (Ronald Reagan comes to mind; with his brain swiss-cheesed from various ailments, he probably did believe all the malarky he spun to us) but rather simply morons. Lying implies intentional deception, like when Billy Clinton told us he did not have sexual relations with the bimbo intern. Of course, sometimes people are deluded and truly do believe the lies they are telling, which makes them not lies but rather hallucinations. A good example of this is me: I certainly believe that people read this magazine, but that is obviously not true. The fact that I continue to proclaim that it is true doesn’t make me a liar or the statement a lie; it makes me a sad, lonely person and the statement a pathetic cry for help. As for the fake nudes of Bea Arthur, we do print them! Due to popular demand they are back! As a matter of fact, you can find them on pages 39, 56, 63, and 198 of this issue. DEAR JEFF: Recently my girlfriend, whom I live with, searched through my pants pockets and found several packs of condoms, some matchbooks with phone numbers on them, and a bottle of Rohypnol tablets. When confronted with this evidence I faked a seizure and locked myself in the bedroom, where I am now emailing you from. What should I do? Should I tell the truth and reveal that I’ve been cheating on her? Or should I lie and tell her I’m holding these items for a friend? ---Desperate in Hawaii Dear Desperate: You fool! You hold the answer right there in your greasy hands! Slip your gal some of them there roofies and then hide the evidence when she comes to hours later. Then you won’t have to admit anything or lie. This does bring up some interesting territory in the discourse on the lie, however, namely those moments when the truth can do more harm than good. The main impetus most of us have for telling the truth is, of course a selfish one: we want to a) relieve our suffering conscience and b) we want to minimize anticipated repercussions with the appearance of a sudden conversion to honesty. These are the only reasons most of us would ever admit a lie and come clean, unless we’ve been nailed red-handed at something. Instead of giving in to this simpering need to confess and be forgiven, do the unselfish thing and perpetuate the lies you’ve told. That sounds pretty evil, I suppose, but really, since you’ll be suffering from a harping conscience and the terror of being found out for the rest of your days, preserving the false situation which is keeping everyone else happy is actually the unselfish and difficult route to take. Confession will make you feel better, you pig, but it would cause all sorts of trauma and angst, tears and regret. Thus, the truth is often more harmful than a delicate web of lies. DEAR JEFF: Don’t you think it’s shameful that our President, the man we trust to run our country’s affairs and to represent us on the global stage, not only engaged in such unseemly behavior but lied on countless occasions to cover up these activities? ---Shocked and saddened in Omaha Dear Shocked: No, I don’t, you fucking moron. Consider the latticework of lies which politicians spin on a daily basis in this country, mostly due to the impossible pressures that our melting pot society puts on them. We have an unreasonable belief that our politicians -not just the ones in our area or locality, but everywhere in the country, should conform to whatever bullshit code of ethics and morals we have managed to cobble together from our brief and tenuous experiences with various religions, codes, and television shows. When you consider the number of people someone like the president has to appeal to just to get elected, don’t be surprised to learn that they probably lie constantly. Or, if not strictly lie (see definition above) they will certainly retreat into vague denial and fancy verbal footwork. The truth, in politics, is not noble. The truth will most often get you defeat and disdain. So, you’re Bill Clinton and you’ve boinked a few interns in your time -no big deal, you figure, it’s not like you were whispering Security Secrets into their white-trash hairdos, right? Ah, but then the bunch of slope-browed conservative subhumans we affectionately call The Republican Party’s Ultra-Right get a whiff of stale semen and rumors begin to fly, investigations are launched, pointed questions get asked. Let’s take a quick quiz. If you’re Mr. Clinton in this situation, do you a) Admit everything and plea for understanding b) Admit nothing and attempt to squirm out of it c) Ask your spiritual advisor for guidance If you answered A or C I can only thank whatever God there may be that you weren’t elected back in 1996. What kind of an idiot would actually admit something like that to a national audience unless forced to by circumstance? No one smart enough to have gotten themselves elected in the first place, that’s for sure. You bet it all on B and hope for the best. And yet, when our President did just that people were outraged and went on endlessly about immorality and shame and lies and such. The President’s obviously slippery morals aside, only a weak man would have chosen honesty in that situation. A schmo. A schmuck. And the people who are saying otherwise are infantile moronic little opportunists who smell blood in the water and pray that through this tenuous partnership with the Truth they can accomplish what they have been unable to do over the past 8 years: oust Clinton. The supposedly sacred truth, to these people, is merely a tool. And I am not referring to a "them" of shadowy power brokers and political movers: I mean all of you small-souled sucks who have been calling for Clinton’s resignation these past few months. You mock the concept of truth, and you’re too dim to even realize it. Ahem. Excuse me. DEAR JEFF: Recently I discovered that my husband of twenty-three years, let’s call him Rubio, has been wearing my underwear for some time, how long I’m not sure. I first began noticing the stretched-out waistbands and missing brassieres a few years ago, but recently I caught Rubbio prancing around like the May Queen in our living room. I retreated into the liquor cabinet before he could see me and so Rubbio has no idea that I am aware of his little secret. Our children are grown and attending college. This makes me very uncomfortable. Should I confront Rubbio? Should I tell our children? Should I buy Rubbio his own wardrobe? ---Burdened in Berlin. Dear Burdened: Technically, unless you at some point asked Rubio his feelings on transvestism, this isn’t a lie. After all, you probably squat and take a shit every day but you don’t go around telling people; can you be accused of lying to cover up your serial defecation? Just as Rubio probably has not actually lied about anything. He’s maybe guilty of many other things: omission of obviously important personal details, bad fashion sense, etc -but I doubt he’s actually a liar. We live in increasingly conservative and frighteningly intolerant times; our beloved country’s lax immigration policies and supposed love of personal freedom is resulting in a fractured culture of sub-cultures, each of us eyeing the other suspiciously. Instead of seeking common ground, we’re exploiting our differences under the guise of "pride" and multiculturalism -in other words, insular provincial bullshit. And one weapon in this insular bunkerism is to pounce on every supposed moral transgression of the "other". In politics it ain’t hard to catch people in lies. Everyone from Ronald Reagan and Newt Gingrich to Al Gore (of all people) have been caught vigorously giving the truth the finger. And in the sensationalistic frenzy of the media-presented reality (woe to anyone to who think television news doesn’t, very subtly, every single evening) the blurry line between an actual, on-purpose deception and the simple act of not bringing up a potentially embarrassing or harmful fact. For those who believe that our politicians and leaders should be held to a higher standard of honesty, I give you all the finger. This is the U.S. of A., mi amigos. The people we elect are supposed to represent us. Ask me if I believe any of you shits, or myself for that matter, lives up to that sort of gloriously dull moral code. Go ahead, ask me. I’m drooling. Our leaders are dirty little lying shits, kids, because we’re dirty little lying shits. In the words of Chris Rock: "The reason Bill Clinton is so popular is, people look at him and say ‘Hmmmn...wife’s a bitch...worries a lot about his job, got a lot of pressure...bill’s are piling up...shit, I know Bill Clinton ---I am Bill Clinton.’" DEAR JEFF: God teaches us not to lie. If more people were to obey God’s word the world would be a happier and better place. YOU’RE GOING TO BURN IN HELL SOMERS! YOU AND YOUR WEENIE LIBERAL INNER CIRCLE ARE GOING TO MEET GOD SOONER THAN YOU THINK! THE RIGHTEOUS KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE AND WE’RE COMING FOR YOU! ---President, The Coming Army of God’s Righteous Children, Atlanta Dear Righteous: Well, its been a few decades since I read anything in the bible, so I’ll have to take your word on this interpretation of God’s words. If you’re right about what God meant, than I’m sorry to say that God was: wrong. Lies are not just the dark tunnels under the mountain of responsibility, traversed by the weak and slimy amongst us: they are the support wires and pavement of our grand civilization. Take away the lies, my fellow Pigs, and you are left with a swiftly collapsing society, borne down by the sudden and unexpected weight of THE FACTS. The facts being that every single human being has lied to cover up something, that we’ve all engaged in the fine art of bullshit. Eliminate the bullshit, and we once again return to one of The Inner Swine’s favorite images: the human race holed up in bunkers, shooting anything that comes too near. See, as onerous as it is for many of us, society has rules. Some of these rules have more to due with ancient tradition than modern necessity (can you say meatless Fridays?) Yet the largely clueless and somewhat superstitious majority of the world’s population continues to not only obey these rules but to champion them, as if these outdated concepts and conventions still applied. The rest of us, too smart to skip that Friday’s cheeseburgers because some demented health official in 1000 BC thought the meat was suspect, sometimes ignore these rules, and sometimes get caught. The rest of us, the ones who still believe that such traditions and rules still have meaning and value, also sometimes ignore them. Why, if they believe in them? Because people are weak, kiddo. Presidents boink interns, Priests abuse Altar Boys, Athletes get addicted to drugs: we all cheat, for one reason or another. Most of these transgressions, of course, are largely harmless where society is concerned. But if we get caught, that won’t matter: the clueless hordes will demand we be punished for mocking their cherished rules. So, we gotta lie sometimes. No sir, that wasn’t me. This won’t hurt a bit. Just a glass of wine with dinner officer. Of course I love you. Was that you I didn’t see you. The fact of the matter is, if we didn’t have lies to fall back on and had to exclusively tell the truth all the time, you’d pretty quickly find out how tenuous or civilization is. Our civilization is supported by a thick network of lies, beginning with the existence of God, running through the concept of freedom in a democratic society, and ending right here in your sweaty little hands at The Inner Swine. DEAR JEFF: My niece "Jenny" suffers from a variety of physical and mental ailments that cause her to appear as something of a goblin. We love Jenny dearly however and try to give her as normal a life as possible. The other day I was out with Jenny in the park getting her a little sun, when a friend of the family’s came up to us and remarked that Jenny was "dead-dog ugly" and then let out a cackling laugh that went on for almost five minutes. This was very hurtful and rude. How can I let this person know that they were a complete wanker without offending them (they are a very old and dear friend of the family)? ---Fuming in New Hyde Park DearFuming: Well, I’m always a big fan of breaking out some old magazines and pasting together a nice, luridly threatening letter. Get specific when it comes to body parts. This always works for me. Your situation does underline an inherent truth in our society (irony alert!): lying is very often the accepted way of handling social situations. The family friend here obviously expressed their "true" feelings and reactions to your niece, and yet here the truth was not only not acceptable, but was downright unappreciated. You would prefer that the friend lie their ass off, right? Telling lies when confronted with polite social interaction is the only way to get by. We all praise creations, feign sympathy, and ask to do lunch when we’d truthfully rather eat dog feces rather than spend time with this that or the other person. Yet these lies are never questioned or denounced -because it’s an open secret that we all engage in them. Imagine if we all acted like you friend and just blurted out our actual feelings! My goodness, we’d be in Bunker Country before the year was out! My Dear Readers: We all lie, in little and big ways, every day of our lives, you know? If you don’t think so you’re lying to yourself, and if you really don’t you are one scary motherfucker. We’ve all squirmed out of a speeding ticket, or called in sick when we’re just tired of showing up at work, or told our parents that we have no idea who honked in the bathtub over the weekend while they were away. Our society is both riddled by and supported by deceptions. It’s the only way several hundred million people can peacefully coexist in one geographical area, unless you count the introduction of Martial Law, which would probably be just as effective but not nearly as enjoyable. Consider: Lying is not always the easy way out. Sometimes it’s harder and more noble to perpetuate a lie than it is to cleanse your soul and wallow in the shallow pleasure of confession. Lying is often less harmful than the truth. Lying is often the only way you can protect your privacy from invasive and rude people, who are often authority figures. Lying is, finally, almost always the accepted practice of "polite" interaction; you are, after all, always discouraged from expressing your true views on individuals -and rightfully so. You might think you neighbor is a complete wanker, you might detest you boss’ sense of humor, you might dread paying your respects to Aunt Bertha -but you don’t say so. You smile, you make small talk, you’re polite -in short, you lie. This is how society works. And we at The Inner Swine love it this way -and that’s the damned truth. ======================================== *** BIG BAG O BULLSHIT *** ALL YOU ZOMBIES The Inner Swine’s Big Freakin’ Conspiracy Unification Theory By Jeff Somers ======================================== PIGS, your Editor woke up last week after an evening spent drinking Green Corn Whiskey and smoking Dillweed with the TRUTH. I also woke up with the extreme urge to vomit, but this wasn’t unusual and didn’t alarm me the way the TRUTH did. I leapt from my bed with both weighing me down, and sprinted to the bathroom. Shivering on the floor with both arms around the comforting porcelain of the toilet, I turned my sweaty head and discovered Ken West, my drinking partner from the night before (we’d bellycrawled our way from one increasingly sordid speakeasy to another until consciousness left me) lying in the tub, which was filled with ice and a blue liquid. His eyes popped open as my gaze fell on him. "Who the fuck are you?!?" he shouted. I told him to remain calm, that he was just experiencing the sudden and excruciating removal of toxins and residues from his body which was distorting his perceptions and pushing his pain threshold merrily into complete synaptic shutdown, that he should just induce vomitting immediately and keep his eyes shut for the next few hours. Nothing I said seemed to comfort him, and his eyes got wider and wider as I spoke. I wondered, briefly, if perhaps I was speaking different words than I was thinking. This had happened to me before, in previous Green Corn Whiskey (and occasionally Homemade Plum Liquor) incidents. Once I had gone over to my Mother’s house during a GCW hangover and caused much heartache and disruption when I’d repeated, over and over again, the phrase "Dad used to touch me" when I thought I’d been saying "Where in hell are you hiding the damn remote these days?" Then Ken’s buggled eyes focussed on me suddenly and he whispered. "You’re one of them!" I shook me head and rested my overheated forehead on the cool rim of the toilet. Carefully, I flushed. "No," I said assuringly, "no I’m not. But I finally know who they are!" Because I had woken up with the TRUTH, remember? HERE’S THE TRUTH: No matter which conspiracy cult you belong to (and we all belong to one or more), you’ve only been shown pieces of the whole. Without the full story, it’s confusing, all smoke and mirrors. This is how they want it: the movement is fractured, diffuse, distrustful of itself. The people tracking the movements of the Masons throughout the world think the Ancient Alien Astronaut people are nuts, the Militia Men think the Protestants Against the Pope are weak on The Federal Governement, and everyone thinks the Anti-Satan crusaders are crazy. That’s the way they want us: ununified. Who’re "they"? I woke up that morning with the obvious truth: the Disneys. The oldest and most secretive organization in history, once known as the Druids, later as the Masons, still controlling our every thought, and molding every event in history. This single revelation led me down a path of research and discovery over the next few days (once I’d dried out enough to stop shaking and form coherent sentences) which has slowly revealed to me, and through me to you, the ultimate truth of our existence which has escaped all the Conspiracy Theorists so far. WALT DISNEY was born in 1890 to Irish parents who had immigrated to the United States, and he was the culmination of a ritual thousands of years in the making. Less a human being than a vessel for an older, more powerful sort of spirit, Walt was first prophesized centuries earlier in the secret writings of the Druids, who were once the openly powerful rulers of Celtic Ireland and Britain before being rousted from those lands by the conquering Romans and forced into secrecy [1]. The once mighty clan which had built Stonehenge with powers beyond human comprehension kept out of sight and mutated into The Masons, who reemerged hundreds of years later in Europe as a public but mysterious organization. Many of the more powerful Druids had hidden themselves amongst the Britons and Celts and had merged, over time, with the native populations. Walt Disney and his Irish family were direct descendents of powerful Druidic leaders [2]. The Druids had not been idle in all those years, waiting for their Deliverer to be born: indeed, they had performed some startling works. Having been momentarily stymied by the grand Roman Empire, they sought its downfall, using the patient and inevitable tactics they were famous for [3], and they patiently crafted revolution by inventing the most prodigious religious cult of all time: Christianity. With their tireless efforts and the bumbling of the Roman Emperors who attempted to thwart its spread [4], Christianity became one of the largest religions in the world, and the Pope, hand-picked by the Druids, ruled its invisible empire of faithful. Not only did the Druids revenge themselves on the Roman Empire by displacing it completely, but they also gained control over the millions of Christians in the world, who obeyed the Pope’s commands (the Papists) [5]. Eventually, some of the more free-thinking people tried to break away from the Druid-dominated Catholic Church. The Druids, now calling themselves Masons, saw that they could not stop the Protestant movement, but subverted it eventually into the famed American Revolution, wherein a bunch of Masons claimed the richest and most prosperpous area of the earth for themselves and set into motion a Federal Government which ensured they would be in power for centuries to come, power passed invisibly from Grand Mason to Grand Mason over the years without anyone’es overt knowledge. The US Federal Government remains a triumph of Masonic architecture, a shell game of politics and rumor-mongering which uses the Cheif Executive as a distraction from the people who actually rule the country [6]. In this manner the Masons have retained control over the USA, and thus a great portion of the world, for the past several hundred years. How was all this accomplished? With knowledge and power, of course, but also with the aid of special technologies given to the Masons/Druids thousands of years earlier by the Ancient Alien Astronauts [7] who canvassed this planet eons before the Roman Empire had even existed. The Druids at that time were well established throughout the world, and made their main meeting place with the Aliens Egypt, where they built huge hotels for the spacetravelers in the form of the Pyramids. The aliens, who had been giving the human race technology for millions of years, did not realize that the Druids, at the time newly ascendant as powers on Earth, would hoarde these technologies for themselves. The aliens expected them to share the wealth, and so departed with clear conscience [8]. But they’re coming back, my friends, and thus the Masons are on a schedule. They have to be ready to meet the Aliens upon their return. If the evil Masonic plan is not in place by that time, the Masons will be punished and defeated by the Aliens, who will then restore to the Earth its proper rulers -us [9]. Thousands of years ago, a prophecy was made: a savior would be born to the Masons, and he would lead their shadowy organization to triumph and glory. The man was given a symbol, so his fellow Masons/Druids would recognize him: the symbol was that of a rodent, with huge, malformed ears and bright red pants. That’s right, Mickey Mouse [10]. The symbol struck fear into the hearts of the good people of Earth, for it represented the final nightmare of Masonic control. The symbol was used for eons as a Ward of Evil, but over time it became distorted and changed, the ears becoming horns, the white gloves wings, the red pants a red skin tone -Mickey Mouse slowly evolved into our modern conception of the Devil, its origins intentionally lost to time by the Masons. Thus, even the Satanists who worship the Devil are part of the Masonic/Disney empire, for they are actually worshipping a distorted Mickey Mouse. When Walt Disney was born, the prophecy was set in motion by the Mickey Mouse birthmark on his left buttock. The Masons were rocked into action: here was their savior. Immediately, his family was moved to the USA, where the Masons maintained the most control and had the most wealth at their disposal. Using both this power and the technology they had stolen from the Alien Astronauts, they engineered Walt’s otherwise unlikely rise to prominence in America. Using his ancient rodent symbol as a public symbol of his secret allegiance, Walt Disney and cohorts set about luring the nation’s children into the Mason’s diabolical scheme. The Disneys, as the Masons now began calling themselves, seized power quietly in Washington, covering up several scandals and changing history numerous times. When Alien Astronauts returned earlier than expected in 1947, the Disneys murdered them and covered up evidence of their arrival. When President Kennedy discovered who was really ruling his beloved country, the Disney’s had their Mafia servants murder him -the Mafia having been formed hundreds of years before as a Praetorian Guard of sorts to the Masons, and now the Disneys [11]. When Walt Disney’s health began to fail, the Disneys utilized more Alien technology and froze him, leaving him in a state wherein he can still direct the glorious and so far unchecked expansion of Disney control into the most hidden and defended nooks and crannies of our society. They do this by an ever-expanding penetration into both our marketplace and our minds, with Disney products, Disney messages, and Disney songs constantly around us [12]. Immersed in Disney rhetoric the population is exhorted to support Disney’s grab for power with endless contributions of money through the purchase of poorly made toys, badly scripted cartoons, and off-key musicals. The Disneys use their control of the government to loosen laws that hold them back (and thus the deregulation of the 80’s leads directly to Disney buying ABC despite serious anti-trust issues) and then use their control of corporations and media to force feed the public more mind-control technology, a gift from our friends the Alien Astronauts. To what end? I do not know, my friends, here is where my vision stumbled (interrupted, no doubt, by Disney minions aiming complex microwave technology at me from across the street, where an infestation of "Rats" [13] has taken hold. I cannot tell you what The Disneys have in store for us once their conquest is finished, I only know that now that I hold the TRUTH in my sweaty, shaking hands, I can no longer go about my normal life [14]. I am building a bunker in the back yard with Ken, and we’re going to store years’ worth of Homemade Plum Liquor and Spam in there, and we’re going to avoid any kind of Disney reference at all in an attempt to clear our minds. And when the Goofy Stormtroopers emerge from the Magic kingdom and start mowing down the undesirables [15], they’re gonna get hell from Ken and me. That’s for sure. I can only encourage you to stop watching those wretched Disney movies, stop reading their books, stop humming their tunes, and start getting really creeped out when their fuzzy little cartoon animals starting geeking across the screen of your life. Fear their corporate muscle, their undead leader in his cryogenic tube, their hazy Druidic origins. Resist their Alien Mind Control technologies. Watch Bugs Bunny cartoons. And whatever you do, don’t ever go near a Disney Store; it’s a fact that 99% of all supposed "alien abductions" occur in Disney Stores [16]. In the future, look for coded updates in new issues of The Inner Swine; we’ll be gathering information for the coming War Against the Rats (WAR) and recruiting new freedom fighters. If you’d like to register as an Anti-Disney Soldier, send $5 to The Inner Swine and we’ll send you a bunch of Inner Swines, jammed with coded messages about The Disneys. Thank you. ---------------------------------------- FOOTNOTES 1. I have no proof of this or examples of the ancient writings. They were unfortunately destroyed one evening when I set the brittle papers on fire while attempting to smoke cow dung in my apartment. But these prophesies are common knowledge. Ask anybody. 2. As the Elders among us know well, all Druid High Priests had names beginning with "D", including the mythic Proto-Priest of Arthurian legend, Dweezil. 3. Most notably mass mailings and the spread of viscious rumors and disinformation; in other words an organized smear campaign. 4. Contrary to popular belief, Christianity was regarded as an amusing and unimportant cult for hundreds of years, attracting mostly slaves and women to its ranks (and not the best slaves, either, bubba) and lacking any kind of organized text or catechism until savvy Roman Emperors fallen on hard times seized upon it as a way of gaining instant popularity and influence. 5. Despite the fact that Pope and his minions have the fashion sense of the Ku Klux Klan, even to this day. 6. This explains the puzzling elections of such political luminaries as Taft, Taylor, Hoover, Kennedy, Ford, Reagan, Bush, and Clinton. It fails to explain the puzzling lack of success of recent luminary Lyndon LaRouche, who would have made a great distraction. The only possible explanation is: Lyndon is on to something. 7. One of the more exciting discoveries of recent Conspiracy Experts is that the Ancient Astronauts who are credited with helping mankind from his infancy, not to mention the crop circles and mass kidnappings of human beings throughout history, bear a strong resemblence to Marty the Martian from Bugs Bunny cartoons. Warner Brothers, the old corporate enemy of Disney, has been trying to tell us the truth for years; all Bug Bunny cartoons can and should be viewed as massively coded metaphors, telling the true story of the Druid/Mason/Disney conspiracy. 8. There is some disagreement on this point. Some experts believe that the Aliens were tricked or ripped off in some way by the Druids, and have been kidnapping and torturing humans in revenge ever since. There is also the possibility that the Aliens did not care what the Druids did with the technologies as long as the Druids paid their price: earth women, which gave rise to the ancient phrase: Mars needs women! 9. The ancient texts are unclear on this point as well; the actual reference is to "The Monkeys", which may indeed refer to one other family of apes on this planet, or even (the powers of the Aliens’ being considerable) the musical group The Monkies. 10. Scholars troubled by the omission of any reference to Mickey Mouse in ancient texts should consider the fact that the word "Lucifer", a Latin phrase, appears in the Old Testament of the Bible, which was supposedly written thousands of years before Rome was founded. My only point here is that we humans keep pretty shitty records. 11. Explaining how a people who have displayed such an awe-inspiring incompetence in most other matters have managed to maintain a criminal organization of such breadth and spectacle. You’d think the people who’d invented The Syndicate and the Five Families would have been able to make a go of Mussolini. 12. Knowledge of The Disneys’ evil plan certainly lends songs such as "It’s a Small World After All" a frighteningly fascist overtone. 13. "Rats" being the common term for Disney minions used by those of us who have seen the TRUTH (about six people, so far). 14. Many of my waggish intimates would now probably snort derisively and comment sarcasticly on my definition of "normal"; they can all blow goats. 15. Led, no doubt, by their trusted Nazgul Lieutenant, Michael Jackson. 16. The victims usually wake up in another area of the mall entirely, wearing tan pants and a blue chambray shirt, their hair cut and their tatoos removed. ======================================== *** COMMENTARY *** Lies Brandon Tartikoff Told Me the subtle manipulation of TV sitcoms by Jeff Somers ======================================== Let’s consider your unhappiness: most Americans today will not only admit to being unhappy, they will single you out at parties and talk to you endlessly about being unhappy. They will practically shove their misery down your throat. If you generate enough sympathy and interest to ask them why they are so unsatisfied (we here at The Inner Swine usually feign a stroke whenever this happens to us at parties [1]) urban citizens will usually give you the following 3 main reasons: 1. They have no money, 2. They have no love life, 3. Their apartment is too small. This unhappiness is purely the fault of television situation comedies. Consider the following, undeniable truth: television programs must accomplish two things in order to attract an audience large enough to generate ad revenues: a) they must cause people to identify with and connect with the characters and situations presented in the show, and b) they must carefully present these characters and their situations as slightly above and beyond the normal life, because, let’s face it, watching yourself belly-crawl through your dull life is not very interesting. This results in a mostly white, 18-35 year-old cast of characters getting into situations which generally involve their jobs, their friends, and their romantic lives -universals that most of us white folk (who, sorry to say, still pretty much dominate the country’s population [2] ) can easily identify with. But the characters are usually just slightly better-looking than you, their friends say slightly wittier things than your slow buddies, their apartments are generally bigger and funkier than yours, their romantic interests are guest stars and yours are psychopaths. Situation comedies present you your life, only better -not so much better than yours that you hate the pampered bastards who inhabit it with a white-hot jealous rage that leaves you shaking and sweaty hours after you’ve destroyed the television, but better enough that you watch. They try to present you with people and situations more interesting enough than yours to keep you enviously fascinated, but not so grandiose that you turn away in disgust. When they do it right, it’s almost imperceptible. Look at Friends, that NBC study in adult immaturity wherein six pals of an under-thirty persuasion get to act like children and get away with it. Consider: the apartments shown are lived in by people who either chronically unemployed or working low-rent entry-level positions. If you don’t live in New York City I have a hint for you: the sheer size of the apartments shown on that show would beggar a small third-world country. Consider: how many of your friends have as many funny comebacks as Chandler? (No, really). Consider: no one on the show really seriously worries about money, or venereal disease, or unwanted pregnancy, or getting fired. Not seriously. Consider how no one is ever alone on that show. Not one of those fuckers is ever alone on a Saturday night, drinking Scotch by themselves, feeling low. They’re always with their fucking friends, laughing. Laughing at us. Okay, okay, it’s a comedy, after all. Aside from the Very Special Episodes ("Tonight, Monica deals with a recipe she’s never had to before: rock cocaine") it isn’t supposed to be a downer. But, you see, once we as an audience connect and identify with the cast, once we have the slightest inkling that we wish our lives were that bright, cheerful, and filled with chicks like Jennifer Aniston who can get away with not wearing a bra [3] , once that happens, pigs, we’re fucked. Because deep down, in places we don’t like to talk about at parties, we’re gonna be disappointed every time we open our eyes in the morning and find ourselves somewhere other than our favorite sitcom. That’s how they fuck us, kids. To illustrate the point, The Inner Swine is proud to present The Jeff Somers Show. First: a true story which happened to me not too long ago, in all its boring and slightly embarrassing detail. Second: the same story, told in sitcom form [4]. **** How I Took Care of Misty’s Cat Over Labor Day Weekend **** We were on our way to Ted and Joe’s to have a cocktail when Misty asked me to take care of her cat while she and Jeof were away romancing in the country. Ignoring the implication that I could not possibly have any plans for the holiday weekend, I said sure, mostly because this would give me an opportunity to go through Jeof’s private stuff. The first two days went pretty smoothly; I showed up at Jeof’s dank and dark apartment which often looks like thieves have rampaged through it, fed the cat, and then played with the poor lonely thing for a half an hour or so, then went home. At the end of the second day, however, I went to the bathroom and left the toilet seat up. When I came back on the third day I found that the cat had had a grand old time skinny dipping in the toilet and then tracking kitty litter all over itself, the apartment, and, in a tragic twist of events, me. Later on that morning I tried to air out the place since the cat appeared to be suffering from oxygen deprivation, and in my clumsy attempt to open up the bedroom window I almost killed myself (and the cat) when it practically came apart in my hands. I patched it together with spit and duct tape and quickly got the hell out of there. When the happy couple returned I was sad to give the cat’s welfare back into their able hands, but got over it, especially since I am still finding kitty litter in my clothes. Well, that was exciting, eh? Now, the Sitcom version of the above story: **** THE JEFF SOMERS SHOW **** Starring: Jeff Somers Sandra Bernhard as Misty Quinn Bea Arthur as Lauren Strutzel James Earl Jones as Ken West Jackie Chan as Jeof Vita and Ernest Borgnine as "Benny" ACT ONE EXT. A CLEAR AND BREEZY EVENING ON A HOBOKEN STREET. JEFF(an incredibly handsome and charming young man), MISTY (a cute-as-a-button young woman wearing no bra), JEOF (an incredibly handsome and charming young man), KEN (an incredibly handsome and charming young man), LAUREN (a cute-as-a-button young woman wearing no bra), and others are walking along the street, chatting amiably. JEFF: And then I said "Don’t make me break my foot off in your ass!" (Laughter) JEOF: There’s the ATM. Everyone lines up to get cash from the machine. KEN: So, where are you two going over the weekend? JEOF: We’re staying at a Bed and Breakfast, and there’s a lot to do down there. JEFF: Do you only get breakfast with a B&B? No lunch? No Dinner? JEOF: Just breakfast. JEFF: No brunch? JEOF: No brunch. JEFF: What about snacks? JEOF: (grim) Just breakfast, you moron. Hence the term "Bed and Breakfast." JEFF: (beat) So, is there other furniture involved? JEOF: (simmering stare) LAUREN: What are you doing over the holiday weekend, Jeff? JEFF: (darkly) Sitting in my room, making lists of all my enemies. KEN: In other words, nothing. (Laughter) MISTY: Hey! Could you take care of my Muff while we’re gone? JEFF: (beat) Uh, won’t that be a little difficult with you - LAUREN: It’s her cat, stupid. JEFF: (darkly) Remember that list of enemies? MISTY: Can you? JEFF: Well, since I have nothing better to do anyway... MISTY: Great! Thank goodness you’re such a loser, Jeff. I don’t know what we’d do without you! (Laughter) CUT TO: CREDITS (Theme song: "Nobody Told Me" by John Lennon, as performed by NOFX; Cast cavorts cheerfully) DISSOLVE TO: ACT TWO: INT. JEOF’S APARTMENT. A spacious five room apartment with new furniture, high windows, and more square footage than Giants Stadium. JEFF sits huddled beneath a coffee table with a telephone to his ear and a terrified look on his face. He has a deep scratch on one cheek. In the background, running water and a wailing cat can be heard. JEFF: (Whispering) Ken! You gotta get over here! I need help! (Pause) JEFF: (Louder) No, now! Dammit, Ken, this cat is some sort of creature of Hell! It came flying at me the moment I opened the door, and every time it meows I swear I can hear the word "redrum"! I stumbled into the bathroom and beat it off me with the plunger, and in the ensuing melee I got it wedged into the toilet! (Pause) JEFF: That’s right, the toilet! Now get your black ass over here with some baby oil and a drain snake and make it snappy or I’m gonna be cat chow! Are you - (The cat’s wailing gains volume, and there is a wet sounding sploink in the background) JEFF: (Getting to his knees and hitting his head on the table) Ken! In the name of all that’s holy! Get over here! CUT TO: INT. KEN’S APARTMENT. A spacious five room apartment with new furniture, high windows, and more square footage than Giants Stadium. KEN and LAUREN are sitting in matching easy chairs, watching a huge television. LAUREN: (not looking away from the TV) What’s going on? KEN: Jeff jammed Muff the cat in the toilet or something. LAUREN: You going over there? KEN: (Turning slightly to look at her in shock) What? And miss "Gilligan"? CUT TO: ACT THREE: INT. JEOF’S APARTMENT. JEFF stands in the center of the living room, staring at the front door from under his eyebrows. He is dripping wet, as is the rest of the room. He has many more scratches and several tears in his clothing. He is breathing heavily. There is a knock on the door. JEFF: (darkly) Come in. ENTER KEN. He is wearing a black wetsuit with the words THE FIXER stenciled on the back, and is carrying a big economy-sized tub of mayonaisse and a duffel bag. KEN: Wow. What happened? JEFF: It was horrible. He got free of the toilet and came for me. I held him off with some couch cushions and tried to make a break for it, but....he was too quick for me. I feinted for the bedroom, but he cut me off and backed me towards the bathroom again. The toilet was spurting water....the cat was screeching REDRUM REDRUM! And I grabbed up the plunger again and fought for my life! KEN: (beat) What happened?!? Where’s the cat? JEFF: (swallowing) Flushed. KEN: Flushed? JEFF: (smiling evilly) Like a goldfish. CUT TO: EPILOGUE INT. HALLWAY OUTSIDE JEOF’S APARTMENT. JEFF, JEOF, and MISTY walk up to the front door, where JEFF turns to face them. JEFF: All right, listen. I wasn’t completely honest with you about the cat. I can’t lie to you guys. You’re my friends. MISTY: (horrified) You mean Muffy’s not in Hollywood making cat food commercials?! JEOF: (horrified) You mean we’re not going to get thousands of dollars in commerical residuals?! JEFF: (glum) No, I’m afraid that Muff is (beat) no longer with us. MISTY: (confused) Where is he? JEFF: (looking off into the distance) Oh, the Atlantic Ocean by now, I should think. CUT TO: END CREDITS And there you have it, kids, two versions of reality: the way it really happened, and the way NBC would have presented it to you [5]. Don’t ever doubt that every single thing shown to you on television has been filtered somewhat with the expressed purpose of manipulating your reaction to it. Is this mind control? Of course not. But it’s as close as they’ve been able to get, and they don’t think twice before using it to its full potential. This of course doesn’t have to be harmful. Getting you to pay attention to a sitcom is not exactly the Devil’s work (some may disagree with that). If they didn’t play with reality a little no one would watch, so its really just part of the entertainment experience -Shakespeare did it, why not NBC? Ah, but at least people pay close attention when they read Shakespear... -------------------------------- FOOTNOTES [1] Actually, after six or seven strong Tequila Fanny Bangers, the stroke is often not feigned. [2] Unless you live in the Northeast or Miami, which are pretty much becoming separate countries within the U.S., from a demographic and lifestyle point of view. [3] Not that we’re complaining. [4] And, as a special bonus, here’s how that same true story eventually appears in the hallowed pages of The Inner Swine, so you can see what kind of filters your Editor puts on reality around here: The Day I Accidentally Killed Misty’s Cat By Jeff Somers Back in September Misty and Jeof had booked a walking tour of South Jersey’s Dirt Farms, from the Brown Loam Valley to the Salted Earth Badlands just south of Cherry Hill. This was their big romantic getaway for the year, since they both loved dirt. Since I am a close intimate friend of both World Famous Cartoonist Jeof Vita and National Streaking Champ Misty Quinn, they asked me to look after their little cat, Mangy. Feed it twice a day, play with it a little, make sure nothing heavy had fallen on him. The first day went smoothly. I fed Mangy Mexican Jumping Beans and Styrofoam pellets, which he enjoyed once I’d dipped them in Barbecue sauce. The second day began with tragedy: Mangy had died overnight of unknowable causes (unknowable once I’d cleaned up the various piles of styrofoam-flecked puke). Jeof’s apartment had also somehow been burned to the ground, apparently by a carelessly discarded match I’d tossed to the carpet as I’d left the day before, which can hardly be blamed on me, since Jeof doesn’t have any ashtrays out, like the insensitive little artiste he is. Since there was obviously nothing I could do, I went out for an early brunch of Mimosas and Bloody Maries. When jeof and Misty returned, I expressed amazement and sympathy, and offered to help them clean up the place a little. I helped them drape a tarp over the rubble (one corner of the living room wall was still standing) and create a rough shelter for the young couple. Then I helped them build a fire and skin and clean Mangy, ‘cause cats is good eatin. [5] Just let me note for the record that no cats were ever harmed by your Editor here. Muff is a purely fictional creation. While I have murdered and consumed countless other mammals in my bizarre desire to keep on living in the style I am accustomed to, never have I done so to a cat. At least not that I know of. There are a few drunkenly hazy moments. ======================================== *** COMMENTARY *** The Ice Weasels Are living in My Pants How to Be an Expert at First Glance by Jeff Somers ======================================== "Love is like racing across the frozen tundra on a snowmobile which flips over, trapping you underneath. At night, the ice-weasels come." - Nietchze [1] THE INNER SWINE has never been about "truth" or "honesty" or "accuracy in reporting". In these modern days, truth is a hollow concept co-opted by TV shows and advertising, honesty will more than likely get you vilification and blame, and that last part just makes us sleepy. As far as The Inner Swine is concerned, it ain’t what you know, it’s what you seem to know; appearance is everything. An easily provable fact is that I don’t know anything of any consequence; my head is filled with earned run averages and pornography. Yet I have cultivated a reputation as a minor savant. This isn’t any kind of major achievement, kids, it’s the result of an easily mastered technique we will term The Inner Swine Faux Knowledge Generator (FKG). People respect knowledge, even in these dangerously lowbrow times where Jewel is a poetess and David Cassidy is writing screenplays. Unfortunately, actual knowledge isn’t easy to accumulate: it requires time, energy, and, ugh, research. We live in increasingly fractured, fast-paced and specialized times, though. The age of the Renaissance Man is over. It takes too long to become an expert in something for us to be experts in more than one or two things, if that. Most of us aren’t experts in anything, except perhaps our jobs, which can’t be that difficult or we wouldn’t be doing them in the first place. There are thousands of subcultures, disciplines, and minorities out there, each with its own jargon, hardware, and traditions. To know it all would take several lifetimes. Too many of us, however, swoon in defeat at the sight of this breadth of knowledge and resign themselves to a lifetime of being dullards, of standing quietly at parties, at having nothing to say. We here at The Inner Swine refuse to give in to our own ignorance! Our time is too divided up between BayWatch reruns and JenniCam viewings for actual learning, but we have invented the Faux Knowledge Generator for those of you who, like us, enjoy appearing to be smart without actually knowing anything. The FKG can be summed up in three words: keyword, sources, and attitude. Using this simple system you will find that you can win any argument, dominate any discussion, and generally appear to be an insufferable know-it-all -as long as no actual experts on the subject at hand are within earshot. The Faux Knowledge Generator KEYWORDS. Actual knowledge could be defined as having an understanding of the definitions, processes, and reasonings behind something. You have a knowledge of Chess Openings if you can identify them by name and understand how the moves are made and why they’re made at certain times. It is absurdly simple, however, to simulate knowledge by the smart use of keywords, or jargon. Technical jargon exists for just about any body of knowledge because, as pointed out succinctly in The Jargon File v3.2, "All human cultures use slang in [a] threefold way -- as a tool of communication, and of inclusion, and of exclusion." In other words, it’s a way for the members of a subculture or discipline to identify each other and keep the rubes out. As a result, jargon becomes a powerful tool, and using it in a confident way can convince anyone not intimately familiar with it that you know what you’re talking about. This requires a small amount of research. Every discipline or subculture has a book somewhere, or a web page, or FTP site or something which will list and explain most of the jargon. Just picking up a few keywords and having a working knowledge of what they mean and refer to is immeasurably valuable in convincing people that you’re an expert. If your audience has only a small familiarity with your chosen subject, or perhaps no familiarity at all, throwing around a few words authoritatively will go a long way towards establishing yourself as an expert in the field. The key is in the presentation. The jargon should roll off your tongue as if you’ve been using it so long to communicate with your fellow experts you’ve forgotten that most people don’t understand the meaning. You shouldn’t be self-conscious about using the jargon, and you should never stoop to explaining what a keyword means unless asked to. In other words, the strength of jargon is its opaqueness: the words form a protective wall between your actual ignorance and the crowd’s interest. As long as they don’t know what it all really means, you can babble it all night and they’ll never figure out you’re as dumb as they are. Note of caution: never make up words and try to pass them off as jargon. You never know who in your audience might just know a thing or two about your chosen area of bullshit, and there’s one truth about words you should never forget: made-up words have an odd habit of sounding made-up, despite the fact that all words were, at one time, made-up. SOURCES: Just parroting jargon or accepted wisdom may not be enough, depending on your charisma factor and ability to bullshit, your audience may not be willing to accept your pronouncements on face value. The second most powerful trick to faking knowledge is the quotation of qualified sources. By attributing a quotation or fact to a legitimate repository of specific knowledge you assemble a whole roomful of experts behind you. Sources are divided into two distinct categories: Renowned and Underground. You should utilize examples from both in your quest to appear smarter and more knowledgeable than you really are. I would stress here that you should not feel the need to have actual quotes from these sources; make them up by all means. The trick is in attributing the fake stats, quotes, or data to a source. Much more powerful than simply claiming you "happen to know" or that you "heard somewhere". By invoking some sources, you’re cutting off any dissent before it begins. Renowned Sources (such as The New York Times) are famous general publications which boast a wide range of interests. They are well known to just about everyone and have some sort of good reputation; in other words I wouldn’t go quoting The FortreanTimes in this instance. While you may like TFT and read it seriously, many people do not. Don’t ever associate yourself with a Renowned Source that has a bad rep, like Brill’s Content. Pick bland, conservative publications that seem like they’ve been around since the beginning of time. Underground Sources (for example Acta Gynecolgica Scandinavia) are very narrow-focussed publications which usually target a small, specific audience instead of a general market; all disciplines and many subcultures have journals, FAQs, and magazines dedicated to their sphere of interest. They may be well-known within their circle, but are probably not on your local newsstand. Pick carefully, a lot of Underground sources have very bad reps, since the standards and practices of Underground publications are generally lower and more mutable than Renowned Sources, which is, sadly, one reason why paranoids dislike Renowned Sources. The Underground Source should be chosen for a careful combination of narrow focus (making it unlikely anyone in your audience might have heard of it) and good rep (just in case someone has). Note of caution: Never make up an Underground Source; you’d be amazed how often this is sniffed out by the dullest audience. ATTITUDE: Perhaps most important, depending on your skill with the other aspects of the FKG, is the manner in which you present your Faux Knowledge. This will be most sorely tested when you encounter a Doubter, who suspects you are bullshitting and decides to test you. How you react will decide whether you walk away a genius or a moron. Remember: you chose to present yourself as an expert. If you get caught, it will be difficult to keep your dignity, eh? Be confident. Admit no doubt. If someone presents contradictory information after your stunningly ill-informed soliloquy, admit nothing, stay calm, and lie your ass off. It is an undeniable fact that most arguments are won by force of personality, not by facts. Once you establish yourself as an Expert, you can wither any opponents with a dextrous stream of jargonbabble, complex statistical proofs, and searing disdain. The searing disdain, I might add, is the most important aspect of the defense. Don’t be afraid to lie. No one is going to go home after a night spent drinking with you and change the course of their lives because you were very convincing explaining Einstein’s Theory of Relativity to them ("As most everyone knows today, Einstein overvalued the Time/Space variable by as much as six percent, irreversibly compromising his data and probably warping the continuum for years to come."). You won’t be responsible for career changes and suicides, you’ll merely have built a reputations as a smart person when in reality you have trouble remembering phone numbers. So, when challenged, lie your ass off. Bullshitting is like building a castle in the swamp: if you keep piling enough on, eventually it’ll reach critical mass and stabilize in spite of its nature. In other words, keep lying and eventually no one will be able to parse it enough to tell you are lying. And if you’re not lying you must be telling the truth. If you do get zapped with someone who actually possesses knowledge on a subject, retreat. The Inner Swine applauds those who wisely run away rather than get slain in battle; better to be blown out of the water early and regarded as someone who had one misconception than to doggedly pursue brilliance and bury yourself beneath debunkings. Pull back in the face of actual knowledge, lick your wounds, and live to lie another day! Utilizing this easy system, any schmo without any valued training or expertise whatsoever can dominant arguments and appear much more brilliant than they actually are. It’s certainly worked for us here at The Inner Swine. After all, reality is what you believe it to be, and most of us have a tenuous hold on our beliefs as it is -easy enough to make the deep magic and fold the lies around you like a royal robe, affect history, alter society irrevocably. Or to get chicks, which is what we use it for, mostly. ---------------------------------- FOOTNOTES 1. This quote has nothing to do with the rest of this article. Nor, in all honesty, am I sure that Nietchze actually said this. ======================================== *** INTERVIEW *** The Inner Swine Interviews #1: AHEAD OF MY TIME, BUT ONLY BY A WEEK Ten Questions with Jeff Somers ======================================== A new feature here at The Inner Swine will be me presenting these ten questions to whoever I manage to get to do it. This will probably be the same bunch of losers and malcontents -I of course mean stalwart friends and associates- who already litter these pages far too often, since they’re usually the only ones I have any kind of human contact with at all. Since this was the first one, however, I naturally interviewed myself. No one interests me as much. 1. What is your greatest ambition in life? To pay off the humongous debts I have accrued in such a short time. Who knew there was a price for my recklessly herculean binge-drinking? Not me. 2. What is your greatest fear? That everything they say about nicotine, alcohol, and cholesterol is true. 3. Do you believe in a guiding intelligence in the universe? Of course not, and to warp a famous phrase from Robert Andrews Millikan, "I think you will understand me when I say that I have never known a thinking person who does believe in God." If this Universe is the best a God can do, we’re in even deeper trouble than mere death. I could construct a better world with Lincoln Logs and L. Ron Hubbard texts. 4. You’re on a plane with the two people most important to you (think of who they are); the plane crashes, stranding the three of you with no food or hope of rescue. Who gets eaten first, and why? Me. Absolutely. Within a few days, too. It wouldn’t take long. First of all, I’m meaty. Second of all, I’m marinated with cheeseburgers and light beer -I’m delicious! Finally, I’m pretty much a beta male who can be talked into anything by attractive women, so it wouldn’t be long before I was convinced that my purpose in life is to be digested by my two best friends. 5. What do you think of The Inner Swine? I think it’s the greatest thing to happen to humanity since TV Guide. 6. What song is stuck in your head this week? "Jeff Wears Birkenstocks" by NOFX. 7. Quick! In 50 words or less defend your existence and consumption of valuable food and oxygen! I don’t eat much and I breath less than most people, so I don’t feel too guilty. Aside from that, I’ve invented a Water Engine (confiscated by the CIA) a Common Cold cure (bought and suppressed by Pfizer, Inc.) and, of course, published The Inner Swine, which will likely be the new Bible after the apocalypse leaves behind a lot of flashburnt illiterates for me to rule from my underground bunker. 8. Describe what you see in the following: [image deleted] I see Snoopy from the Peanuts comics, being eaten and torn apart by various demons and monsters. He’s screaming "Get Met!" but no one can help him now! One of the demons bears a remarkable resemblance to Garfield. 9. What are your feelings on public urination? What’s the big deal? Our backwards complex regarding our natural elimination of wastes from our bodies is pretty creepy, IMHO. While no one wants people whipping it out or squatting right there in the street whenever they feel like it, I don’t see the harm in emergency venting. After all, I live in the NYC metro area, where public bathrooms are guarded and secret. If there’s harm in occasionally pissing in a Dunkin’ Donuts’ parking lot at 2AM, I’d like to see proof of it! 10. What’s your best pick up line? "Excuse me, I don’t mean to bother you but if you don’t sleep with me I’ll start to cry right here in front of you." Works more often than you’d think. JEFF SOMERS is the Editor and writer of This publication. He lives in Jersey City with his personal demons and dresses like an alterna-boy wannabe despite his viciously conservative views and cynical attitude towards all popular culture. This is usually where the interview subject would get to plug his/her projects, views, or whatever, but since this whole freaking volume is pretty much a Jeff Somers infomercial, I’ll spare you one more self serving paragraph, okay? ======================================== *** COMMENTARY *** American Wedding Confidential #7: Will The Real Best Man Please Stand Up? ======================================== In which I learn the explosive force of love: About year ago this Thursday my old friend Emil got married and asked me to be his best man. Emil’s a good friend of The Inner Swine Inner Circle (TISIC) in general, and there was some resentment, jealousy, and harsh words concerning my elevation to Best Man status. There were also isolated incidents of violence. Eventually, Emil managed to cool tempers and remind the rest of TISIC that they were, above all else, contractually obligated to me in perpetuity. After that impassioned speech the members of TISIC retreated to their various abodes to scan the fine print of their contracts, only to return in much more manageable moods. The Best Man has a lot of duties in the modern wedding. Whereas in the good old days he was merely a responsible member of the groom’s clan who vouched for the groom’s sanity, financial solvency, and lack of venereal diseases, these days the Best Man has lots to do: organize a bachelor party (I’m told it was a humdinger; personally I don’t remember much after that fifth body shot off of Lola the Stripper’s washboard stomach), deliver the viciously hungover groom to the actual wedding the next day (Emil still had his Emergency Room ID bracelet on), manage not to vomit during the ceremony, and then, finally, and most importantly, make a speech at the reception. The Best Man’s Speech is supposed to accomplish a few minor but cherished conventions: it’s supposed to compliment the groom, his choice of bride, and form a verbal bridge between the carefree days of the groom’s prior friendships and the more complex but equally rewarding years of mature friendship to come. In other words, the Best Man’s job is to reassure the groom’s buddies that they will indeed see him from time to time despite the nag he’s chaining himself to, and to reassure the groom that his buddies will always be there to say mean things about his wife in private if he needs them to. I worked very hard on my speech in the ambulance, riding with Emil to the ER after the bachelor party had taken a dramatic turn. The transcript which follows is taken from the wedding video, and more accurately reflects what was actually said than the scrawled speech written on cocktail napkins in the ambulance. I think I accomplished the goals of the Best Man’s Speech admirably: Ladies and Gentlemen, friends and family, I’ve known Emil for sixteen years. When we met back in prison we didn’t like each other very much; he always wanted to pitch and I never let him. Being cellmates gave us time to get to know each other and by the time our parole hearing came up I was proud to stand next to him, hold his hand, and testify that we had each found Jesus and would dedicate our lives to upholding the laws of the land if we were released. In short, I’ve known Emil long and well. And in many ways, most of which I don’t wish to discuss here. Over the years Emil and I have gone through a great many things and we’ve always supported each other: when my dog Skippy died, Emil was there to help me through it, tenderly digging a grave for poor Skippy and getting me drunk later that night before we traced the plate number of the car that hit Skippy and set it on fire, in revenge. When I became addicted to Internet Porn a few years ago, alienating my friends and family, losing my job, ending up at one point getting busted for public lewdness in The @ Café in New York City, Emil was the one who came to my apartment one July evening, knocked me cold and kidnaped me. Emil kept me in a cold, dark basement for six months, deprogramming me. To this day whenever I see a computer keyboard I shake and vomit helplessly. While this has caused me difficulty and unpopularity at work, it saved me: if not for Emil and the vicious torture he put me through in that basement, I would be in some asylum somewhere, trying to log onto from a pay phone. Emil has always been there for me, and I am pleased to be here for him today, the day he marries Petra. In the four and a half days I’ve had the pleasure of knowing Petra, I’ve realized that Emil’s life was but an empty and meaningless melange of sex, drugs, and progressive jazz music. In less than a week, she has become not only a dear friend of mine, but a dear friend of all the members of The Inner Swine Inner Circle, The Inner Swine being the magazine I publish which I really think you all ought to read and purchase subscriptions, because you see that large black guy in the back standing with several dozen men in fatigues? That’s Ken West and he’s going to be waiting for you after the reception, and all I can say is that he’s much nicer to people who have subscriptions than to anyone else, and I can also say that I have less and less influence over him every day. What? All right, all right, Emil, Jesus, calm the fuck down, okay? Anyway, as I was saying, Petra has not only redeemed Emil from his obvious descent into damnation and syphilitic degeneration, but she has entered and improved the lives of all of us. She’s a rare and delicate flower of womanhood, she’s a compassionate and beautiful creature who’s....energy and....emotion....and....and....ladies and gentlemen, I love her. Petra, I love you. I cannot stand here and pretend that everything is okay, while I am dying inside! Petra, I’ve been dying inside all these past few days! Ever since Tuesday night I’ve been tortured by my love for you, while you marry this troll, this monster, this syphilitic mistake masquerading as a man! Oh, the stories I could tell you! Emil, the whoremonger! Emil the petty thief! The man he killed in Mexico! The drugs he dealt to little kids while on work release! The Kiddie Porn! Oh, Petra, you’re making a mistake! Ladies and gentlemen, keep that madman away from me! Excuse me....pardon me....Ken! Help! Ladies and gentlemen, I beseech you! Petra! Petra! (At this point the audio becomes garbled as many voices intrude and the action on-screen gets a little hectic. Occasionally you can here me shouting "Not the face!" but I don’t think technically that’s part of the speech. At this point I felt the explosive power of love, and it certainly beat the shit out of me) I often wonder what became of Emil and Petra. I suspect he still communicates with other members of TISIC, but none of the bastards will admit it, and the court order prevents me from finding out for myself. If anyone has heard of Emil and Petra’s whereabouts, please contact me. There’s money in it for you. ======================================== *** COMMENTARY *** Strangers Amongst Us Smart Vs. Delusional in Today’s Society by Jeff Somers ======================================== "Let them be...Just don’t get fucking near me!" -NOFX Every now and then I get letters or phone calls or mail bombs or some such from people who have not yet accepted my personal apathy towards almost every other opinion ever uttered in this universe. It’s funny how people are always compelled to tell you what they think; about your belief system, your grammar, you yourself. The arrogance, of course is dumbfounding (my own compulsion to puke out my not-so-amazing opinions on a quarterly basis is pretty arrogant, too -but every one of you people have, at one point or another, requested this zine, so I don’t want to hear any complaints) and a bit frightening -these yahoos are not firing off their incendiary letters with hippie-love in their hearts (let’s educate the deluded little nubbins!), oh no. They send us their opinions with anger and rage licking the edges of the pages like spoiled flames. If you feel strongly enough about your opinion to push it onto someone else without their request, you’re probably a fanatic. I say this because reasonable people, when they read something they disagree with, will shrug and shake their heads and then go out and continue living their lives. Think of it this way: consider how many times a day you read or observe or hear something you wildly disagree with, something that makes you frown and pause for a moment in outrage. Now imagine you spent even ten minutes each day composing angry letters to the sources of these outrages, one after the other. Pretty soon you’d be writing all day, you’d have to hire a staff to help you. Most of us don’t have this kind of energy. Reasonable people realize that you shouldn’t waste the energy required to address everything you disagree with, because they are reasonable and realize that their energy is finite and should not be wasted on battles they will never win. That’s right, never win. You know why? Because if you’re reading something, that means some other idiot felt strongly enough about it to spend some of their time and energy writing it -and that means they’re just as fanatical about it as you are. The unstoppable force meets the immovable object. Madness cancels madness. You’re both screaming into empty rooms, listening to echos of your brilliant and spittle-flecked manifestos. I know this. I write my little articles, badly formulated and hardly researched, and I really don’t expect anyone to care. I know I’m right, I know it with the calm certainty of prophecy, the restful surety of insanity, but I also know with the same level of confidence that no one else ever agrees with me, not completely. Not heartily. I am alone in the universe, and being an arrogant fuck I like it that way. As a matter of fact, finding like-minded souls depresses the hell out of me, reminds me that I’m really only one of the standard versions that humans come in, with a few of the standard options. I know the futility of life, I get into bed with it every night and it fucks me up the ass and leaves me with that look on my face....the look of eventual death. A hundred years from now, chickies, no one will know who I was or what I said....unless I get an agent. And soon. Still, those crazies out there continue to write me, telling me what they think, what insulted them, what they liked. I don’t know which is worse, the infuriating assholes who write me pages and pages of meticulously insulting refutations of my easygoing kvetching, or the ingratiating idiots who write to tell me how great I am, how well I write, how much their friends love me. From my loved ones and intimates, this sort of talk is pretty cool. From complete strangers, this sort of talk makes me nervous. It’s symptomatic of a lot of repression and insecurity: they would like to tell me how much I suck, but they have no faith in their ability to make such writings compelling. So they settle for a cheap hand-job by getting my attention through prancing praise. I was raised Catholic, for christ’s sake: praise just makes me nervous. At any rate, the writing continues. A triumph of our American Education System is the fact that while most of our progeny are inarticulate hulks who have had their hopes and dreams crushed from their wriggling bodies a few years into the whole degrading experience of public school, most of them do know how to write. Not well, usually, but they can ponderously place words side by side and more or less communicate their thoughts. Unfortunately, since so much of our great nation is populated by slackjaws, simply being able to write down your thoughts often makes you the local genius. And so, all the little local geniuses are writing to me, sharing their views on subjects as if we were the fucking Algonquin Round Table of the nineties, brought together through email and the Zine revolution. I don’t want their thoughts. I don’t care for their opinions. The only opinions that truly interest me, frankly, are my own. Not because I think I’m so darned correct, but because my opinions are simply the only ones I find interesting. Who cares what you think? Not me, buddy. Never forget that we are The Inner Swine. We love our fellow human beings, we respect them, we grant them all the freedom in the world, we simply believe in loving and respecting them from a great distance. In conclusion, let me offer up the best advice I can give anyone out there who is having trouble keeping the voices in their head from taking over completely: start your own damned magazine. If you must puke out your opinions, put it in bound form and hawk it to us with pictures and low-rent philosophy, like I did. ======================================== *** RAVING *** like ma bell, I got the Ill Communication The Weirdness of Communication Today by Jeff Somers ======================================== There are a lot of strange people out there, folks, and I know a disproportionate number of them. Weird is, of course, a diffuse term difficult to really define; it means different things to different people, and we all tend to define it based on our own backgrounds and needs. Fairness and evenhandedness has never been one of The Inner Swine’s priorities, however; we tend to concentrate on Revenge Against Our Enemies and Shitloads of Money. Freed from smallminded concerns about objectivity and justice, we’re glad to define weird for you: just about everyone we talk to on a regular basis. These freaks we otherwise call our friends and neighbors fall into one of two weirdness categories: Phone Freaks or E-Mail Cretins. During some period in their childhoods these people must have been locked in basements or closets for long periods of time, because their grasp of the conventions and demands of a civilized society is tenuous at best. I don’t understand why such a primal and instinctive urge such as to communicate gets so confused and convoluted. PHONE FREAKS A-GO-GO. The most common offenses, of course, occur on the phone, which is still the primary device of communication in my backwater social circle. Most people understand the concept of conversing on the phone, but some of my associates, I am convinced, only recently encountered the device. Among the offenders are Work Talkers. These are the people who only call you while they are at work. How far out of their general train of thought you have to be to be relegated to this mental ghetto I’m not sure, but it ain’t far from spiritual Siberia. The implication in a consistent and on-purpose work-talking cycle is that you do not rank high enough on the list for them to make you a part of their private life, but you are not yet unimportant enough for them to ignore you completely. Since many people regard work as the time and place during which they must perform a load of unwanted tasks anyway, they might as well call you while they’re at it. Not to mention the plethora of easy excuses when the conversation drags on too long. A call now and again from some while they are at work is no reason to panic. Three or four in a row and you should re-evaluate your relationship. Machine Talkers. These are the people who ludicrously phone you at home and leave messages on your home machine during times when the entire universe, including complete strangers halfway across the world, know you are not home. 10:30am on a Monday, for instance. The Machine Talkers do not want to even speak to you, you are so low a priority with them. They either merely need to impart information to you or have not yet crossed the line of not returning your calls; in other words, they are cowards. In fairness, some machine Talkers are not trying to scrape you from the shoe of their social life, but rather actually prefer speaking to your machine. These people aren’t cowards, they’re just strange. Non-Message Leavers. The phone rings at 11:15pm on a Wednesday night. You figure it could be any number of good friends, or it could be that girl you said you’d call three days ago, tracking you down. So, you decide to screen calls. The phone rings again. Twice more. And then -nothing. The machine doesn’t pick up, the phone stops ringing, the bastard hung up on you. You get up and pad slowly towards the phone, wondering if it will start ringing again. You stare at it, pick it up and verify that there’s a dial tone. Then you dial star-69 and find out it was your good friend. They just didn’t leave a message. Why? No one will ever know. Even the Non-Message Leavers have no idea why they don’t leave messages. They just turn purple and sputter when you ask them. Car Phoners. One of the lower castes of the hellbound, the Car Phoners are a close relative of the Work Talker. These are the people who consistently call you from their car or cell phone. The conversations are generally brief and confusing: mix garbled phrases, fade outs, tunnels, and the distractions of high-speed traffic and a typical conversation with a Car Phoner goes something like this: YOU: Hello? CAR PHONER: Hi! It’s y! YOU: Mary? Is that you? CP: Yes! I’m on the YOU: What? CP: Listen! I’ve been you, I need a favor! YOU: Favor? Sure. What? CP: YOU: What? CP: fuck you, asshole! YOU: WHAT? CP: Not you! There was this who tried to in my so I stuck my up his ! YOU: Oh....what can I do for you? CP: I need you to when they Wait, a tunnel’s YOU: Hello? Hello? CP: Why do they do this? Like the Work Talkers, they give the impression that the only time they can bother with your onerous friendship is when they can do nothing else anyway. There is also the possibility that they feel safer knowing someone will know the instant they get smacked into by a truck. No Time Nowers. This amazing sect of Ayn Rand achievers are the ones who never have any time to talk to you or anyone. No matter when you choose to phone them, they will bark "I have no time now!" and hang up on you. These people clearly suffer from an immense ego and inflated sense of self-importance; I have never once been so busy that I couldn’t spend five minutes talking with someone. Most days I am sitting by the phone using my Obi Wan powers to make it ring, for god’s sake. Maybe if you’re trapped in a burning elevator with your hand clamped over someone’s spurting Carotid artery, maybe then you don’t have time. Otherwise, I think it is one of the main tenets of civilization that you at least ask "How are you?" before moving into Talk To You Later Mode. Once in a while, I can see it -but every time? The key word in "I have no time to talk to you now" is YOU. It implies there are plenty of people they have time for, you’re just not one of them. E-MAIL CRETINS ON THE HALF SHELL. Then there are those who like to communicate via the faux-letter device of email, the invention of which will either save or doom us. The things which infuriate me about email are not the same things which infuriate the two-decade veteran of email; people who were emailing back in the day yearn for the apparently utopian society which existed on the Usenet back then, and have all sorts of complex rules of politeness and etiquette which have been ignored by the unwashed masses on AOL. Nuts to them, I say. They’re also the bastards who invented the smiley face :) so they deserve it all. Exclusive spammers. The biggest freaks in the world of email, my fine readers, are those who never actually send you a personal note at all, but who communicate with you via jokes, spams, bitmaps, and chain letters. They don’t send you a note saying "Hey Jeff, how are you? Gotten rid of that infection yet?" they send you Lewinsky limericks and blonde jokes, cookie recipes and other such chaff. The really creepy part is, they don’t even bother with a "Hey, thought you’d like this" tag which would at least let you know they consciously mailed it to you, that you weren’t buried in the middle of some 105-name grouping they can’t even remember the members of any more. It’s just the joke/spam by itself, hollow and abandoned, as if an auto-mailer had you on a list. I get chills. Compulsive cc’ers. These friendly folks believe in free speech and work overtime to make it even more free than it already is. Every scrap of correspondence they generate they cc all their friends on. If you respond to a joke, they cc their reply to you. If you ask them a question, it comes back with 55 names attached to the TO line. You start getting emails about subjects you’ve never heard of, people you never met, social events you weren’t invited to. You start getting cc’d replies to emails you didn’t even get yet, causing mass confusion. Why do these people do it? There are only two possible explanations: A) they believe so fiercely in full exposure and free speech that they open up their every communication to scrutiny to prove they have nothing to hide, or B) they do not quite comprehend the mechanism of email and don’t even realize what they’re doing, nor could they disable it if they did. Karen Accavallo. Ah, dear, sweetly mad Karen warrants her own section in this article for the affliction which generates directly from her: One Word Emails. While some people can be refreshingly brief in their mail, sending a simple "Good morning!" or "Thanks!" in the mail, Karen takes this minimalist urge one step further and often sends me one syllable words which are not, upon closer inspection, actually words at all. Emails which read BLAG or YURNF are not uncommon. Sometimes these emails are uninvited arrivals, shocking me out of my otherwise enjoyable day, sometimes they are actually in response to a question or invitation. I am not sure, but I strongly suspect that Karen believes these words have meaning, since she is always surprised when I complain. I think that when Karen writes BLAG she thinks she is writing "Why yes, I’d love to consume a beer with you this evening in some appropriately public place, it must be public as I fear you will grope me if I don’t have witnesses to protect me." Oh well. I am not guiltless in this department, after all; I am an Answering Machine Obsessor and annoy everyone I know by making twelve-minute mini-arias as outgoing messages, and I check my answering machine about seventeen times an evening, on average. But, as the saying goes, this is my zine and you can start your own if you want to complain about me. It takes different strokes to move the world, after all, and The Inner Swine is all about tolerance....at least until we can get ourselves a better class of friend. ======================================== *** PARANOIA *** The Mitnick Technique and other Internet Follies: Sowing Fear and Loathing on the Fertile Ground of the Internet by Jeff Somers ======================================== LADIES and gentlemen, they hate us. Answer me this, jackrabbit: are you new to the Internet? Have you established your first account with an Internet Service Provider (ISP) within the last four years or so? They hate you. Do you use your ISP account to download porno and forward virus warnings to everyone you know? They hate you so much smoke comes out of their ears. Is your ISP America On Line (AOL)? My goodness, they’ve probably already tried to run your dog over a few times. Do you interact with the internet mostly through (gasp) Web TV? It goes beyond hate, then; there’s probably a little red laser dot on the back of your head right now. They despise you. Back in the early-to-mid 1980’s, piglets, I was a busy if undistinguished software Pirate. My parents had bought me a Commodore 64, which to me was really just the next generation of game machine. But it was a computer, you know, and after I’d secured a 5.25" floppy disk drive I set about acquiring as many games as I could. Along the way I also acquired a lot of applications and utilities, including some sophisticated Copying software (such as CopyQuick 3, Fast Hackem, and ICEPick), all of it designed to Crack commercial software so it could be copied and distributed. I did this without a single moment of compunction for the broken copyright laws, partly because I didn’t really comprehend that I was breaking the law (I didn’t sell the games, I traded them for other similarly broken games) and partly because I didn’t really give a shit. I made a lot of Pirating contacts. By the time I retired my C64 I had a really impressive collection of games, applications, and utilities. I probably could have become a Hacker. But I didn’t. Why not? First and foremost, my parents refused to buy a Modem for me. Looking back, this makes perfect sense. I was on the phone all the goddamn time as it was. They had no idea how long I’d be on the phone with my computer hooked up to it, nor what kind of charges I’d rack up with it. They made the only decision that made any sense. Secondly, of course, my moderate-to-weak math skills. While I had written numerous simple BASIC programs on the C64, doing all sorts of useless things, by the time I was sixteen and sitting in Calculus class I’d already privately sworn off all math. I haven’t performed a higher math function since 1989 and don’t plan on doing any just for fun any time soon. Even had my Mom awarded me with a Modem and a subscription to Phrack I’m pretty sure my interest in the Hacking world would have waned shortly after I realized I’d have to master Boolean Math to do anything really cool. Mostly, though, I didn’t become a Hacker simply because at the time I was completely unaware of the possibility. I was an enthusiastic Cracker of software, but I had no clue there was this worldwide network of powerful computers, or that I could actually access them with my dinky little C64 (some of the famous Hackers arrested in the 1990 Sundevil bust actually were using C64’s). Despite having seen Wargames in the movies in 1983, I had little clue. I was, and remain, a willfully isolated little man. A few years ago, after being computer-less for several years, I bought Ken West’s old PC clone with an 80386 CPU and got an AOL account. But Ken’s crufty old machine was so woefully overburdened that I could basically access E-mail and newgroups; even with images off the Web crashed me every time. A few months ago I went out and bought a Pentium II machine running at 333Mhz and a 4 Gig drive. After a while spent dicking around and using my computer to download MP3s of punk bands and produce this lovely rag, I decided it was time to get a little serious. So I started doing a little research. I found out a lot of things, but mostly I found out that they hate us. Who are ‘they’? They are legion. They’re the maladjusted fifteen-year-olds with FREE KEVIN posters in their room who download precanned Cracking software in an attempt to destroy civilization as they know it from their computers (although if they managed to vandalize a web page now and then its a major event for these D0odz). They’re the pissed-off old FidoNet users who miss the good old days when the Internet was a polite and uncrowded secret garden of their own. They’re the ancient and slumbering old UNIX wizards, outraged from their dim and cluttered lairs at our ignorance and disrespect. They’re the volatile and arrogant Hackers and Crackers who know more about computers and networks than most of the SysOps out there. They are the corporations and media tycoons trying to dominate our sources of information and advertising access. They are the legislators and Federal agencies which now wish they’d regulated the Internet a lot more from the get-go. A lot of people hate us, pigs, though they hate us for different reasons. The Advanced Research Projects Agency was created in 1957 as a part of the Department of Defense. In 1969, The ARPANET was commissioned, and the rest, as they say, is incredibly complicated history, ending right here right now with the new Internet and the World Wide Web, among all the other things. But what was originally conceived of as a Department of Defense study in decentralized communications networks (the theory being that a decentralized network of packet-switching computers might survive a nuclear attack in better shape than a centralized phone system) has obviously grown into something unexpected. Even ten years ago, with the ARPANET about to be officially retired, with the PDP-10 and VAX machines which made up the backbone of the ARPANET fading from use in the face of advancing technology, the Internet was still mostly the playground of colleges and corporations, the quiet domain of academia and the government. Even as the free distribution of UNIX and the inspiration of LINUX gave more and more "regular" people access to the Internet things remained calm, for two reasons: there was still some semblance of a centralized monitoring (if not control) of the system, and users still required a fair amount of technical know-how to get on line. You didn’t have to be Ken Thompson to maintain a UNIX shell and navigate the telnet pathways, but you couldn’t be Beavis and Butthead and expect to get very far. Things, as any grey-haired old Hacker will tell you, have changed. The Internet is an incredible source of power: power through information and through communication. It’s also filled with fear and loathing, dread and anger, arrogance and mindless, thoughtless aggression, from three main camps: The Federal Government, The Hacker Community, and Corporate America. Welcome to the Information Age: please empty out your pockets and put your hands on top of your head. FEAR The Federal Government funded and initiated what has become The Internet and then almost immediately lost control of it, in typical Fed fashion. Since the first four computers were linked together on the old ARPANET, it has been the users of the system -which was largely researched, developed, written, and cobbled together by various drop outs and fringe-geniuses at Universities and Laboratories, Hackers and anti-social gurus- who have defined its purpose, invented its innovations, and changed its course. Every day the C.I.A. wakes up to find that its web site has been hacked again we imagine they take out a secret copy of some DOD memo and weep over the decision to let Beatniks and Hippies work on the project. Your average Senator or President or CEO has no idea what goes into an Intel Processor, or how UNIX works. The inmates, in this case, not only run the asylum, but they built it. SO, if you’re the Evil Powers That Be and the inmates have built this Internet and you not only can’t control it but you can’t even understand it, what to do? Simple, you demonize it, using what we will call The Mitnick Technique: you roll out an example of the worst case scenario, hype it up, and then make a huge example of it, all in an effort to convince badly-informed people that your nightmarish take on the situation is accurate. You run a million stories about Pedophiles trolling for your kids on the Internet. You run a million stories about Crackers stealing credit card numbers and buying drugs with your money on the Internet. You run a million stories about how amoral Hackers are, how they would sell secrets to the Commies, shut down the world in the interests of anarchy. You downplay the positives and concentrate on the negatives, all in the interests of creating enough anti-Internet sentiment in the air to enable you to ram something like the Communications Decency Act through the Congress, or make Federal control of encryption software a mandated policy. In short, you give us Kevin Mitnick, a poor, confused, undoubtedly tired individual who undoubtedly did a lot of bad things with his great understanding of the computer and phone systems, tell us he is a bogeyman, and then try to put him in jail, forever if possible. Then you hope we’re scared enough to hand you the dented Marshall’s star and beg you to protect us. No one argues that there are perverts out there, posting fake nudes of Bea Arthur (try www.lairofluxlucre.com). No one argues that you can find out how to build a bomb (try www.phreebyrd.com/~nero/tacb/) or investigate satanism (try www.satanism.net) or plenty of other things which are perceived as potentially dangerous to society or our kids. I think that if anyone believed that the CDA or the encryption battles were really about protecting the citizens, there would not have been such instant and vigorous resistance to both endeavors. How can you tell me the CDA was for my interests when it bald-facedly tried to make discussiing abortion on the Internet illegal (thank you, Senator Hyde, for your grand wisdom)? The Mitnick Technique is not necessarily exclusive to the world of computers; under different guises and names it has been used throughout history to demonize and castrate any great movement or technology that threatened a controlling entity. Luckily for us, the main identifying feature of our Federal Government is its fluttery ineffectualness. They can’t even scare us effectively. Corporate America hates us, too, you know. Following a string of conservative, business-friendly administrations from Reagan through Clinton[1] the ultra-rich media moguls had managed to snarf up just about every TV station, radio signal, and newspaper in existence, allowing them, or so they thought, to feed us whatever party-line they wanted to push. Images of brain-dead consumers danced through their dreams, consumers hard-wired to the only source of news and information they had, stumbling up to the trough and tossing their money in. And then, like a bunch of bastards, we all went on-line and started surfing to places like www.disinformation.com and the Drudge Report. Suddenly, their media empires aren’t as powerful as they thought they were. Not only can you get alternate information feeds, opinions, and non-company sanctioned reports, you can also find a few sites dedicated to exposing a company’s bullshit and faults, despite their expensive and expert PR machines (try www.aolsucks.com, www.adbusters.org, or www.x86.org). The corporations hate us because we’re no longer permanently glued to CNN or ABC, we’re surfing the net. They fear the Internet because there is no way to dominate and squash competition (all web sites have the same priority when accessed by search engines and the like) and because there is so little standardization of technology and software there is no way to impose this kind of control. LOATHING Of course, it’s natural for Americans to expect their elected and corporate masters to hate them. For a fat, rich country with more personal freedom than brains on a per-capita basis, we’re a paranoid bunch of monkeys, you know? It’s something else entirely for our fellow Americans, our fellow surfers, to hate us. But they do. They really really do. They fall into two main categories: The Hackers and The Academics. The Hackers are an odd breed, these days, equal parts Elder Days Real Programmer and Dead Cow militants. The Unix Gurus and LINUX Warriors are the people who write those video games you like to play, they actually create the code and they could take your computer apart, scavenge a bunch of parts from it, and put it back together again in perfect working order. These people understand the world you only live in, sisters, and they hate our ignorance. Whenever one of us pops up somewhere scratching our heads going "I didn’t even know people used UNIX any more!" they start cleaning their guns. More than our ignorance, though, which they could tolerate as long as we stayed out of their way, they hate our lack of respect. No, you did not hear wrong. This is a pretty common theme from these cold warriors on the Internet. Go lurking in these crusty old newsgroups and you’ll hear it again and again: the unwashed masses screwing around on the superhighway these days have no respect: for the men and women who created the Internet, for the Hackers who fought for the freedom to use it, for the conventions and traditions that were long established before they got their ISP, for the very technology that got them there. The list of things we generally don’t respect is pretty freakin’ long. They look back on the "glory days" of the Internet, back when the World Wide Web was still in its infancy and people still telnetted places on a regular basis (telnetting these days can be an exercise in barren futility unless you know where you’re going) and, most importantly, when the people you encountered in "cyberspace" a) knew what they were doing, b) observed the amenities, and c) understood the medium. Nowadays, these crusty Hackers complain, there’s too many of us zooming around, abusing the system, wasting bandwidth, and uploading far too many pictures of Alicia Silverstone and Leonardo DiCaprio. They may be right. The Hackers vary in age from 65-year-old Comp Sci professors who remember when the ITS/UNIX controversy was a juicy topic on the newsgroups, who mourned the death of the last PDP-10 machine in 1990, and teenagers who caught the final bellow of the "old" Internet back in the early nineties, before it became completely commercialized. With the advent of user-friendly GUI-based web browsers and O/S’s, the torrent of ignorant and insulting users has grown to crisis proportions, in their eyes, and the one wish they have is to kill us all, quietly, in our sleep. They obviously can’t do that, so they vent their anger in other ways. They insult us, first off, whenever we post a message that reveals ignorance or a poor choice of Operating System ("You use Windows 95? Sucker!"). They educate us, in arch, clipped tones, on "netiquette" and other fine points of what and what not to say or do when on-line. Occasionally they’ll send you an E-mail bomb or hack your web page, just to keep things interesting. Their attitude is, if you have neither the knowledge or tools to protect yourself, you don’t deserve to be on the Internet in the first place. Of course, they can’t really do anything about it. They lost the Internet to the big ISPs a long time ago; AOL might be the cruftiest piece of shit in the world, filled with security holes and crashing bugs and the world’s most primitive E-mail client ever (written, if some of the complaints are to be believed, some years before computers were even invented, and implementing an abacus operated by a Golden Retriever, hooked up to wires) but it has ten million subscribers because it has an easy, easy interface and hell, they mail you the fucking program. Americans will generally utilize, ingest, or wear anything as long as they have to go through no effort whatsoever in order to do so. AOL knows that getting that CD Rom into a newbie’s mailbox is 75% of the battle. The Academics, on the other hand, can do something about it -eventually. They hate us too, for many of the same reasons as The Hackers. They were enjoying this civilized, peaceful world of electronic communication, where everyone was educated, versed in computing, and involved in those dull academic discussions most of us would rather eat rat poison than listen to. Nowadays, their playground’s been overrun by idiots, as far as they can tell. Lowbrow, MTV-watching idiots who don’t know what SAIL or LISP was and use the Internet mainly to create fan sites (www.welovejenniferlovehewitt’sbreasts.com) or to post ridiculously ill-informed comments. But The Academics, you see, were largely the ones who built the fucking Internet in the first place, so they have an option you and I and the Hackers, sadly, do not: they can take their ball and go home. The jokes on everyone: The University Corporation for Advanced Internet Development (UCAID) furiously pounds out The Internet2 project. Never heard of it? SURPRISE! Internet 2 will have vastly improved FTP schemes and will make data transference easier and faster, and guess what? You can’t get an account on it. If you visit their grim and cheerless website (www.internet2.edu) you’ll find out that "...currently, only institutions of higher education located in the United States are eligible to apply for Regular Membership. Applicants must be making a definitive, substantial and continuing commitment to the development, evolution and use of advanced networking facilities and applications in the conduct of research and education. UCAID members have estimated that they will spend at a minimum $500,000 per year in order to be able to participate in the Internet2 project. Applicants should be committed to at least this level of investment and/or more, depending upon their own state of advanced networking preparedness." They’re catching on, piglets. If you’re building a bigger and better Internet and want to keep the unwashed hordes off of it, how do you manage it? You price it out of reach, of course, and you do not advertise it. Granted, the Internet2 project is just that, a project, it’s going to require a great deal of work and invention and research to come to fruition, and you and I would probably not get much out of it right now. But when it is up and running and making our current resources look pale and weak, what then? If we don’t bother to pay careful attention to it now, we’ll very likely be left out. We got on the Internet largely due to poor planning and accident; this time they’re apparently wise to our slacker ways, and don’t want six million people playing Quake III Deathmatch on-line while they’re trying to do some research. Fucking elitists. So be careful out there, hombre! While Hacker powers are greatly exaggerated (not even the supposedly dreadful Back Orifice Trojan seems to be destroying the world in Cult of the Dead Cow’s image) they will take any chance they can get to fuck you up if you can’t show them that you’re elite. If you’re new, if you have no interest in knowing anything about your computer system beyond where to click to make things happen, well, they hate you. And as a matter of fact I’m beginning to dislike you myself. This, of course, is what The Inner Swine is all about: hating your neighbors will an unreasoning intensity matched only by your own sense of superiority, combined with lots of techno-jargon and advanced technology. We love it! ---------------------------- FOOTNOTES 1. {BEGIN RANT}Anyone out there who is protesting that Clinton is a Democrat and at worst a moderate Liberal, I say: Fie on thee, easily manipulated media drone! Wake up and smell the evil, Clinton’s so conservative he’s practically George Bush. Considering the slim difference between our two parties, it’s amazing we still kid ourselves that we have two separate idealogies fighting it out. The only explanation for this phenomenon I can think of is: you’re all easily manipulated media drones!{END RANT} ======================================== *** COMMENTARY *** YOU CAN LIVE ON RAMEN NOODLES FOR $200.00 A YEAR Surviving the Coming Economic Crash By Jeff Somers ======================================== "I am under no obligation to make the world a better place." - Reality Bites I don’t understand anything more complicated than Celebrity Jeopardy, really. I put on airs sometimes that I’m an intellectual, much to the annoyance (and irritation) of my long-suffering close family and friends, but the truth is I’m the sort of guy who can easily become confused trying to keep the relationships on Friends straight. As a matter of fact, the dangerously skyrocketing number of references to that white under bellied little sitcom in this filthy rag is one reason I question not only if I’ve lost my youthful edge, but whether I ever had one at all. That has nothing to do with my intellect or capability to understand complex subjects, but it sure explains a whole lot, if you ask me. So, being slightly dim to begin with, I find it difficult to stay awake whenever the talking heads on my television screen or the icons writing for the major periodicals start going on and on about economics and national policy and the World Bank blah blah blah. I don’t understand how people like Imelda Marcos can bleed a third-string backup country like the Phillippines for billions of dollars, and yet we in this country might actually have to go through some hard times despite the fact that we shit a billion dollars accidentally on a daily basis. What can I say? I’m a simple lad. I like to live in a simple world, and anything that complicates my puddle gets ignored rather viciously. So, a few months ago Esquire put out an interesting article about how experts agree the USA is headed for a major economic dustup, likening it to the Great Depression. At least, I assume it was an interesting article; I didn’t actually read it (heavens no! I barely have enough time for finding porno on the Net as it is!) I just scanned the cover, which featured a disturbing graphic of a man’s head smashed into pieces with the headline what did you do after the crash, daddy? emblazoned across the top. Using my immense intellect, I got the gist of the article without reading it, trust me. As I said, I’m a simple lad. Aside from the fact that major magazines (and TV shows and any other media-conglomerate that treats information as a commodity) are faced with the daunting task of finding something interesting to write about a on a monthly basis, it should be obvious to anyone who pays any sort of attention that media sources, talking heads, and generally every single person in the world is pretty much wrong half the time anyway. The universe thwarts all attempts to predict its next move. So I sort of don’t see the point in paying much attention to magazines like Esquire, especially since Esquire isn’t even bright enough to put a naked woman on its cover like all the other magazines. How do you expect to sell me a magazine without boobs on the cover? I mean, come on. Such a breathtakingly provincial attitude is all well and good when there’s plenty of gravy floating around this swollen nation, and even marginally talented yokels such as your Editor here can get paid by a major corporation for services rendered, if only just barely. But even I have to pull my head from my fascinating ass and wonder, what happens if there really is a crash? What happens if I can’t even manage to earn the pitiable little salary I’ve managed to scratch out for myself? Perhaps a little deprivation and poverty would teach my bloated generation a little character, a little humility. Maybe a few years of desperation would remind us that we’re not owed anything by life and that we have to work hard for everything. Maybe it would teach us something. Not if you follow these simple rules, pigs. The Inner Swine is not about improving your soul or deepening your character or making you grow as a person, so herein we’ll explore how you can maintain the life of a useless slacker even in the face of catastrophic financial collapse. As long as the USA doesn’t completely collapse, leaving us with no choice but to join up with insane warlords in some Thunderdome scenario, you ought to be able to keep on contributing nothing to history, culture or anything else for that matter and still keep your Baywatch re-run viewing at a maximum. 1. Cut Expenses. You don’t need to eat every day. In the event that the American economy turns into pudding, your first object is to ensure daily survival. You can’t spend your days fondling the remote control and yourself if you don’t have scratch, friend, and during Grapes of Wrath-like turmoil your previously touchable friends will become a little more miserly, trust me. But don’t despair! Even assuming the Republican assholes who will no doubt overrun the Congress just before their dangerous fiscal policies (amounting to Fairy Dust and Masonic rituals, IMHO) cause the aforementioned crash deny you and your ilk government assistance, you can still manage to live. First and foremost, though, you’ll have to adjust your spending to reflect the new situation. What are your essential needs? Here’s a quick guide to the only things you really need: liquor, television, food, and candy. What can you eliminate? Easy. Anything which will not cause you immediate and sudden death. New clothes? You can survive without for a while. A car? Walking is healthy. Shelter? If you can’t find a friend or relative surviving the disaster with condo intact, there are plenty of alternatives as long as you can look respectable (see next section). Everything you truly need is listed above. Let’s see how we can acquire them on a regular basis without spending much money. Food. As the title of this article suggests, you can live off of Ramen Noodles for about 50¢ a day. All you need is boiling water. Water is free. Scratch up 50¢ a day my friend and you’ll be eating Beef Ramen until you’d rather you were dead. I’ve determined through painful personal experimentation that you reach that I’d-rather-be-dead-than-eat-one-more-bowl-of-Ramen-Noodles stage after 34 straight days of Ramen consumption. Television. Now, television is free, but you’ll have to somehow manage to not sell your TV for one of the other items on the list. Of course, you could always stand in front of store windows and watch TV there, assuming the aforementioned warlord situation isn’t in effect, because then there would probably be no television anyway. Candy. Your best bet for candy would probably be those newsstands in Manhattan where they put the candy out on display while the proprietor of the stand sits inside, collecting monies. It isn’t too hard to snatch a Clark Bar and run. By the time the poor sap extricates himself from within the stand, you’re two block away, licking chocolate off your fingers. Liquor. Obviously the most difficult item on our list to acquire, and yet the most necessary. I can survive anything as long as I’m armed with a snootful of cheap booze. My best suggestion is to steal liquor from your friends and family. Even after they kick you out and tell you not to come back, you’ll be able to use your intimate knowledge of their homes to break in and rob them blind. Total costs: 50¢ a day. 2. Get Creative. It’s All About Appearances. Some of you might be reading this and wondering why shelter isn’t on the list above. You simpering snobs think having a decent place to live is essential and I must echo Yoda when I reply: that is why you’ll fail. While you’re desperately trying to hang onto your apartment, smarter people like me will be hoarding our booze and exploring less expensive lodgings, which is to say free. The key is your appearance. You’d be amazed what you can get away with in this sad world as long as you look nice. People who complain about there being no public bathrooms in New York City obviously look like bums, because you can take a crap just about anywhere in this town if you just look respectable. If you put on a nice suit and tie you can waltz over to the Waldorf and use their bathrooms. Just looking nice will get you in. So, if you manage to keep yourself fairly groomed you’ll be able to worm your way into all sorts of public buildings, which will give you access to the most important ingredient in grooming: running water. Once you’re in a gas station restroom or public library bathroom, you can wash up (assuming getting partially naked in public places doesn’t bother you) shave, even rinse out your underwear. It’s a bum’s paradise. The key is, you have to look presentable to get through the doors, so you have to begin your grooming program the moment the crash hits and you get evicted for non-payment of rent. Be ready. Of course, maybe you’ve got a family member or friend who’s surviving the crash easily, in style, and you can live with them and leave it at that. If not, aside from running water you’ll need a place to sleep, and no matter how presentable you look no place will let you sleep there that night. So, chances are you ain’t far from some big city, and big cities always have large selections of abandoned buildings, some even in pretty decent neighborhoods. While the local haunted house or condemned building won’t have much by way of heat or electricity, it will keep you out of the rain and give you someplace to sleep. Sometimes the power company even leaves the power on in these places, since it often costs more to send someone out there to disconnect than it does to just leave things be. Not an ideal life, perhaps, but much better than being a migrant worker, getting paid pennies to pick beans somewhere, better than living in some pathetic tent city in a park where TV news correspondents come by every week to do human interest stories on you. The easiest way to stay unemployed during the coming Depression, friends, is to too closely resemble Henry Fonda from The Grapes of Wrath. Not only do you look dirty, disheveled, and criminal, you also look ready to bust some heads at a moment’s notice. Stay relatively clean and you might just get a job, or at least be able to steal some stuff. Total costs: Just your dignity, and what’s that worth? Nothin’. 3. Lie, cheat and steal. It’ll be a disaster, after all If the Depression hits, one thing is for sure: there will be no jobs. That’s my working definition of a Depression anyway. I can’t comprehend Corporate politics as it is, so the trials and tribulations of our overpaid CEOs won’t concern me much beyond cheering every time on of these overfed assholes takes a swandive off the Empire State Building, so you can talk at me about World Economic Forces or Domestic Fiscal Actions, and it won’t mean anything. Thirty million able bodied people out of work, now there’s a situation I can wrap my head around. So there’s only one solution to your situation if the big whammy puts us all out on the street: toss those traditional morals over the side and start cutting purses. In the event of a major Depression, The Inner Swine fully endorses crime and thuggery as a personal short-term solution. You won’t be able to get a job, after all; even if you do spend your days standing around a parking lot hoping to be chosen by fat-cats looking for cheap hard labor you’ll get paid shit for 18-hours of back breaking work. I don’t know about you, but the staff here at TIS long ago decided that death would be preferable to back-breaking labor, and we meant it. The cyanide capsules were handed out, and we all know in our heart of hearts that if we ever found ourselves wearing work gloves it wouldn’t be long before we were found, foam-mouthed, twitching on the ground. If you were going to get paid well and solve all your financial difficulties with labor, I suppose it could be excused. But let’s face it, in a major economic crisis you’re going to be