Showing posts with label metafiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label metafiction. Show all posts

Thursday, July 28, 2011

The Irony of Anonymity


"...The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones."

--Julius Caesar, 3.II





by Brown Nose the Pirate

When I got this shit assignment, Guise Faux sez "All I'm giving you is a working title: 'The Irony of Anonymity'. The rest is up to you."

"Irony"? sez I. "The fuckizzat? Sarcasm for pussies?"

"It's about how the tradition of anonymity and pseudonymity in pirate radio has become a trap," sez the boss.

"A trap?" sez I. "You mean like Admiral Ackbar 'It's a trap!' or Jaye Davidson 'It's a trap!'?"

"Either. Both. Neither," sez the boss, raising one eyebrow and looking moderately surprised. A rare event. Nothing seems to surprise him.

"Ennyways, fuckami, goddam octopus?" I protest. "Awreddy got one hand onna keyboard, tryin'ta finish part four of this 'Fester' trilogy, other hand onna beer. Now I gotta write this pussy shit about 'irony'? Give it to Dea."

"Part four of the Fester triology is already three months overdue," GF replies patiently. "And Dea is on holiday to Manitou Island again. Noone has your taste for... blood. Write it any way you want."

He walks toward the door without another look. "Big bonus," sez the boss. "I'm counting on you," he sez.

He pauses at the door and sez, without looking around, "Don't let me down."

Suddenlike, the hare on the back of my neck is standing up.

Awright, whatever, I need the cash.

Past few years I been talkin' to lotsa people 'bout this U.S. shortwave pirate radio scene. Station operators, listeners, webmasters and moderators, other people who write 'bout pirate radio, Discordians, trolls and anarchists. Tell ya, shit people say, 'specially late night after the band goes long, the six pack is gone and th' Ambien or Xanax kicks in.

Truth comes out, late night, tellya what.

Radio tuff guys
Like Kracker bragging 'bout he's gonna stalk Shlomanski's wife or some such schit, or snitching out Fansome on air in 2008, or he's gonna kick in Evil Elvis's last tooth, or he's gonna talk toddler babytalk to some guy who looked crosseyed at Krackwhore's sugar daddy, Commander Bunny. Seriously - on IRC... Kracker plops in like a turd, and sez, I shit you not... "ninny nanny noo noo stick your head in doo doo."


*** Log file opened: 3/2/2008 1:32:34 PM
[14:09] Guest1 is now known as RJI[14:10] [RJI] ninny nanny noo noo stick your head in doo doo
[14:10] [RJI] pmlol
[14:33] Guest1 Laughs Out Loud :D

[14:33] Guest1 Laughs Out Loud 1,8:D

[15:05] ChrisSmol sets mode: +b *!*@Star812610.columbus.res.rr.com
[15:05] ChrisSmol has kicked Guest from #pirateradio

Fuckin loudmouth leprechaun, spin some more Grateful Dead or cry some more about Fat Steve or do sumpin yer good at like warm up CB's nuts.

Ennyways, 'scuse my fuckin French...

Common theme ya hear is how this whole thing about anonymity - pseudonyms, aliases, whatever you wanna call it - has been corrupted, misused by a coupla guys, the bunnyman and his favorite nuthugging homunculus goon, tryin' to set up this cult. 'Cuz that's what it is, let's face it, fuckin' pagan Ishtar "Eoster" cult set up by this one guy got a hare up his butt, if ya catch my drift and I'm purty dang sure ya do. Other goon, tryin' to set up this Blowing League SubMoron clench onna FRN. And that's more of yer irony right there - Malaclypse, Hubbard, Jack Parsons, Stang, all 'em guys, gotta be laffin' their asses off at these clowns.

See, originally, these pirates, free radio operators, whatever, they gotta watch out for the FCC. Back in the day, this was serious stuff, big fines. And embarrassing. Some a these guys, they got licenses at stake - ham radio, some even in commercial radio. Maybe some work in government or politics, consultation and whatnot. Even a magazine editor got busted back in '91, running a 13-hour mobile marathon. FCC, serious fuckin business back in the day.

So, you don't use real names or addresses.

You don't reveal the names and locations of fellow pirates. Ever. Because you'll never be trusted again.

And since you don't know for sure who's a pirate and who isn't, why take a chance on exposing anyone's real name and location in the pirate scene? Look at the situation with Kracker in the summer 2008 "pirate war." He thought Fansome was "only" a listener. And Kracker's jealous, see, has this bunny crush on Commander Bunny and wanted to be CB's bitch. Kracker don't like it, Fansome getting a special QSL package from the bunnyman, and Fansome cracking wise about the bunny. So he outs Fansome by real name and address, claims he got the info because Fansome "ordered a t-shirt." Who's sellin' t-shirts? Not Kracker. The bunnyman is. And now Kracker hasta wear a snitch jacket forevermore.

And now ya gotta wonder how secure your identity is when you order WBNY swag offa ebay, or send for a real QSL card. Who knows who's gettin' yer info now, am I right? Whole trust thing, it's blown, cuz a' this loudmouth leprechaun. And now the hareball hisself, he can't be trusted neither.

Don't break the seal
See, the whole anonymity/pseudonymity thing is like drinking beer and trying not to piss. Cuz once you break the seal, a whole lotta piss is gonna come out. And keep comin' out.

So, say a guy wansta be a pirate. He comes up with a good radio name, station ID, preferably sumpin' easy to copy with weak signal or lotsa static. Off to the races. Hook up a transmitter and some wire, put out a signal and then... what? Who heard you? You dunno. Maybe you wait for signal reports, like in Monitoring Times inna old days. Maybe you don't wanna wait.

So you find a mail drop. Can you trust the guy? Who knows, ya hope so. Cuz past few years ya got some reason to wonder, what with Krackwhore McIdiot in '08 bragging about having the bunnyman's mailing list and whatnot. Starts reading out names an' addresses over the air, blowing crap 'bout he's gonna do this to so-and-so, gonna do that t'other guy. And now ya even got the bunnyman himself threatening to drop a dime on ops he don't like. And the bunnyman making all this noise about how real pirates send real QSL cards, right. Lotsa pressure. Like you start wonderin'... is he tryin'ta collect a database of names and addresses? Cuz ya hear things, y'know, I'm just sayin'.

So, back in the day, sure, anonymity, pseudonyms, handles, whatever, yeah, serves a purpose. Now, you think, maybe not so much. It's just part of the act, part of the show, put on a good show for the listeners, right? Don't even need a mail drop. Listener wants a QSL, send an eQSL. Make the resolution high enough it'll print postcard size just fine.

FCC? Minor problem, mostly warnings the past year, 2010 and this year, before then, not much a nothing. Not like FM, those guys get socked harder. But now... you hear things, y'know? Like maybe some insider is a snitch.

Why still with the charade, then? Why the big deal about aliases within the pirate "community," and I use the term loosely, my friend. Why the whole Secret Squirrel stuff?

Control, my friend, it's all about control. Mind control, black propaganda, dirty tricks. Stuff a media savvy guy or political hack would know. A guy like Pat Murphy. Hey, don't get me wrong, I'm only here to praise Murphy, not bury him. Cuz we're all men of honor, amirite?

An' howza guy like that get that kinda savvy? WROV bio sez he was Jerry Michael Graves for awhile. Virginia news sez he flip flopped between names depending on whether he's working radio or political hack jobs. So, he's Michael Graves as assistant to the Montana governor in the 1980s, then back to Pat Murphy as a radio guy, then back to Graves when he's working for some Virginia area transportation authority. Then Murphy again.

So, this is an experienced guy, savvy, knows how the game is played. He's not gonna get caught in anything sketchy, right? He's gonna stay above the fray, use his experience to keep the pirate scene chill, right? He's gonna be neutral, right, support the whole pirate scene, not play favorites. Cuz we're all honorable men here.

See, the FCC... ain't a pirate's worst enemy. What's FCC gonna do? Basically, waggle a finger, "You're a naughty pirate, don't do it again, kthxbai!" Is he gonna expose your identity, home address... well, maybe, sure, depends on the situation. With a warning, maybe not even that. Is he gonna try to incite people to harass you, badmouth your business? Nah. Threaten to stalk your family, like Kracker did in 2008? Nah. Is he gonna use a buncha sockpuppets to fag up the interbutt, squeeze out a buncha Astroglide and fist himself, tell himself how great he is? Nah. Is the FCC guy gonna whine "Yer ruining pirate radio! Nasty monkeys! Cowardly keyboard commandos!" Nah. Is FCC guy gonna call you a child molester like Commander Bunny does when he's having a big boo-hoo, pull a buncha dirty tricks to humiliate you, chase you away so he can go back to suckin his own sockpuppets? Nah. What kinda crazy person would do that? Makes no sense, am I right?



A pirate's worst enemies?

Himself.

Other pirates.






Same as the cannibal hamsters who gnaw on each other on 14275 and 14313 USB. 'cept those guys don't hide behind some fake, bullshit pirate code of anonymity.

See, the irony of anonymity is that the biggest attention whores hide behind their smoke screens singing "Looky me! Looky me! I'm the greatest pirate of them all! But you gotta pretend you don't know who I am!" while ratting out anyone they don't like.

Like Yogi Berra said, all pirates are liars or crybabies. Or was it pitchers? I dunno.

Lookit Commander Bunny. Huge attention whore and drama queen. "Looky me! Lookyme!" alla time. Cripes. Whines about how Poet supposedly revealed his location. Huh? CB sez he's in Missoula, Montana, on his own publicly accessible Facebook page. Same place Bill O. Rights of Radio Free Speech claims to be. I guess the bunnyman is living in a hutch outside Billo's one-holer now.

Meanwhile, someone onna Blowing League posts a biography on their pmlol.com site, saying Pat Murphy actually is Commander Bunny and Bill O. Rights and a buncha other legendary pirate stations. Right there onna page, sez it's the only authorized biography for Pat Murphy, Commander Bunny, Bill O. Rights and whatnot. So, who wrote that? Kracker? Some other f00kin slohb? Why the hell would they wanna slander a respectable guy like Pat Murphy that way, a man of honor? Cuz we're all honorable men here, amirite? Is it the Bowling League that Commander Bunny and Pat keep saying are ruining pirate radio and exposing good pirates?

"...their pmlol.com site, saying Pat Murphy actually is Commander Bunny and Bill O. Rights ... who wrote that? Kracker? Why the hell would they wanna slander a respectable guy like Pat Murphy that way?"


And, hey, don't shoot the messenger, we're only the piano player, y'know, we didn't play that song and dance on the pmlol.com site, we just read it and wondered why someone would write that kinda stuff about a well respected guy like Murphy. An honorable man like him.

Point is, remember what I said about "don't break the seal"? Yer drinkin' beer, once you start pissin', once ya break the seal, ain't no stoppin' it. Same with this whole pirate radio anonymity/pseudonymity game. Ya break the seal, watch out for the pissin', cuz there ain't no stoppin' it. And, buddy, there's a bladder full of piss stored up right now.

I mean, this Commander Bunny, he's the same guy using all these sockpuppets to mess with people all these years: Beans, Mosby, Bouncer, Thumper... who knows how many more? Ya gotta wonder about "lovemyradios", Winston, "2531" and "MIB". Wazzat? like "Man In Bunnysuit"? MIB is the one who couldn't wait to link to Poet's bust on the FCC site... like MIB knew it was coming.

This is the same bunnyman who called "Spore" a child molester and then published the schlub's name, ham call sign, address and then publishes the names, call signs and addresses for the schlub's family? The guy's family, fer chrissake. Classy, bunny, classy.

This is the same harebrain who makes up his own rules about whether to respect the anonymity of other people in the pirate scene:
"...the protections, extended to pirates, does not (sic) include you. Even if you were to go on the air and be a pirate, it wouldn't count now, its (sic) called "EX POST FACTO" but you so (sic) smart, I'll bet you figure it all out. But just in case, the protections, are not retroactive! Sorry but you lose."
--Beans, December 28, 2009, the "Spore" incident. (Beans is/was a sockpuppet for Commander Bunny.)

The Canuck Trollmaster Flips the Bunny. Flips Him For Real.
This bunnyman, he's the same myxomatosis-infected guy tried to use his lame "bobsmith6955@yahoo.com" alias, pretending to be from Lethbridge, Canada, trying to con Doc John of Northern Relay Service. This "Bob Smith" mook's IP traces to Virginia! And Doc John flips the con around on the bunnyman! Masterful trolling, so hilarious it'll get its own blog entry. So ComBun has a hissy fit cuz he got trolled and conned by a master, and starts pissin' all over the FRN about how IRC is "evil", and hasta use half-a-fuckin-dozen aliases to support his lame whining. It is precious!

"IRC the destruction of Pirate Radio - The FRN Grapevines"

And then this past February "Bob Smith" tries to get Doc John busted by reporting him to the authorities in Canada! Yeah, no shit. "Bob Smith" files a complaint with an amateur radio club in Canada, with the CBC, with Industry Canada, all because the mook can't stand a little competition from another relay service. Talk about yer fuckin hareball!

And now we hear Poet of The Crystal Ship gets The Knock. And the agent seems to know way too much about Poet in advance. And "MIB" on the FRN seems to know way too much in advance - like he's knows it's comin', and he just can't wait to crow about it. MIB... Man In Bunnysuit? Murphy In Bunnysuit? Nah... nah... couldn't be, cuz he's an honorable man.

Poet, The Crystal Ship, one of the true veterans of the U.S. pirate scene dating back to the early 1980s... snitched out? How does this happen? Among these honorable men?



"There were only two people who had my real name," Poet tells me. "I've been very careful," he sez...



"...except for that damned t-shirt."




From Commander Bunny's WBNY blog declaration of 19 May 2011:
"What I will do is make sure everyone on my mailing list knows who is really behind the lies, rumors and cowardly attacks. Everyone is going to know their real names, their real locations and have a complete portfolio on the nasty monkeys behind the destruction of Pirate Radio."
--Commander Bunny demonstrates ninja choke hold on irony

The bunnyman's intentions seem pretty damn clear. And that's pretty damn close to the date on which Poet got The Knock from the FCC, and the dates in May specified in the FCC's warning letter.


"If I knew where you were located, and wanted to "scare you" I'd used (sic) your real address..."
--Commander Bunny, WBNY blog, July 26, 2011, before later revision in which he did publish Poet's real name and full address. (Full resolution download available here.)



"...here is the name and location of the "visit" by the FCC."
Gxxxxxx X Bxxxx
3xxx Cxxxxxx AVE
LANSING, MI 48xxx
--Commander Bunny, WBNY blog, July 26, 2011, one of several revisions that day, this one in which he did publish Poet's real name and full address. The FCC notice specified only the name and city. Commander Bunny added the specific street address. That information has been obscured here in the text version only to make a Google search a little more difficult. The screencap contains the original copy of the WBNY blog and is also available in HTML.



"This guy [Doc John of Northern Relay Service] doesn't belong in the pirate community. We've always taken care of problems within our own group. This guy is a problem. A big problem... We've dealt with trouble makers in the past and if they are ignored, they go away. If you have a solution, you think will work, do it, for the sake of pirate radio..."
--Commander Bunny, March 2011 (Note: Pat Murphy, under his "bobsmith6955@yahoo.com" alias, had already filed a complaint against Northern Relay Service to a Canadian amateur radio organization in February 2011.)



Sorry, CB, pirate radio is not your personal army. Go raid your sock drawer and see if ya can get Beans or Mosby or Bob Smith to call the FCC next time you feel the need to hack up a hareball.

So, Commander Bunny is wondering why people suspect he might have snitched out Poet to the FCC? And all the other people, ops and listeners, he's screwed over while hiding inside his Secret Hutch of Anonymity?

Meanwhile, CB wants everyone else to pretend we don't know who he is, and respect his anonymity.

Now that's ironic.


See Poet's blog for his description of the curious events involving his visit from the FCC: The Crystal Ship Has Run Aground."Curiouser and curiouser!" cried Alice, from her vantage point down the rabbit hole.

Saturday, July 16, 2011

Ha-Ha Only Kracker, Ha-Ha Only Snitching

Editor's note: For the rest of the summer we'll be poking the stanky embers of the Summer 2008 "Pirate War" for sparks of lulz. Because propagation stinks. And we're bored. And we're trolls. But let's pretend we're professionals and this is just a retrospective documentary of one of the genuine milestones of the North American pirate radio scene, worthy of Never Forget!

This Tale of Radio Paranoia is the culmination of three years of research, interviews and pestering sources for permission to release information, all with the goal of providing the most credible documentary of the shortwave pirate/free radio scene to be found anywhere, with an eye toward the finest of journalistic traditions.


Those lofty goals fell by the wayside in the same ditch with drunken correspondent Brown Nose the Pirate, who files this report fetid pile of slanderous crap, which we had to rewrite because his notes were unintelligible.

Noone says Kracker is a snitch.

Noone says Kracker is a backstabbing, opportunistic sociopath. Noone says Kracker has managed to infect the U.S. pirate radio scene, long after he'd worn out his welcome, by mooching off Commander Bunny's coattails and regularly tossing CB's salad. Noone says Kracker is brain damaged from years of huffing jenkem fermented from rabbit feces.

Noone says DNA test results from swabs of Kracker's pie-hole (obtained second hand from his saliva left on Bozo's mother's penis) conclusively prove that Kracker is in fact a homunculous spawned when Radio Bob practiced auto-erotic asphyxiation and spilled his manly seed into a pile of rabbit droppings in 1999. Noone says Evil Elvis harvested the alchemical goo and used it as fertilizer for the world's most potent Psilocybe cubensis which, when ingested by Sarah Palin, caused her to crap out a fully grown Kracker, along with a hallucinogenic gas that would later cloud the minds of Republicans into believing she actually made sense.

Noone says these things.
From Images

Recently I was catching up with black propaganda specialist Pol Mak Erigot - code name "Noone", a play on words based on the name of his Mao-era handler, Noh Wan. He passed along some of what he ha-ha-only-seriously referred to as evidence of treachery and dead-agenting by Kracker, infamouse perpetraitor of Radio Jamba Jerkoff International and other brilliant programming unfunny radio puke. In the process he clarified why Kracker got away with outing another pirate op in 2008.

It's a cautionary tale for anyone unfamiliar with the convoluted mindset of the Fabulous Rabbit Nuthugger cult's paralogism, which mandates that for a pirate to be eligible as a pirate he must declare himself to the cult leader.

"...expose the person who intended harm on a good pirate operator... YOU NEVER SAID YOU WERE A PIRATE... so the protections, extended to pirates, does not (sic) include you. Even if you were to go on the air and be a pirate, it wouldn't count now, its (sic) called "EX POST FACTO" but you so (sic) smart, I'll bet you figure it all out. But just in case, the protections, are not retroactive! Sorry but you lose."
--Beans, December 28, 2009, the "Spore" incident, a reaction to a prank audio edit by Guise Faux of Radio Paranoia. (Beans is/was a sockpuppet for Commander Bunny.)


I first met Pol Mak Erigot during the 1970s at an international university haunted by spooks, Discordians, gun runners, hermaphrodites and atonal composers who were developing psyops techniques later used on Branch Davidians and Juggalos. I was fresh out of the Marines and using the G.I. Bill to dabble in communications, religion and urban planning, a cover story for my real job smuggling East German and USSR documents stashed in the needlessly complex exhaust systems of West German cars (typical Germans - even their automobiles reflect their obsession with stuffing things up their asses).

For awhile we even worked together in smuggling human organs, mostly for a shadowy Asian ring that converted human kidneys and fiber optic cable into organic/artificial hybrid kidneys that enabled transplant recipients to piss out the trade secret recipes for any popular Western beverage. Human mules - mostly Thai ladyboys with a huge capacity for swallowing - are implanted with the hybrid kidneys. They drink whatever beverage an Asian dictator craves, then piss into a mass spectrometer to reveal the recipes. Pol Pot was a big fan of Dr. Habanero Pepper, a limited edition beverage canceled in 1977, while Kim Jong-Il craved Pabst Blue Ribbon after repeated viewings of Blue Velvet. The Frank Booth character played by Dennis Hopper turned out to be a significant influence on his leadership style. The North Korean dictator was known to guzzle the cloned PBR while listening to Roy Orbison, strip down to his skivvies and scream "I fuck anything that moves!" As far as anyone knows, after binging on Dr. Habanero Pepper, Pol Pot just screamed unintelligibly when he pissed.

Pol Mak was a curious mixture of a Cambodian mother and Polish father and claimed he was a refugee from the Khmer Rouge genocide of minorities and half-breeds like himself. Rumor said otherwise. Rumor said he'd been groomed as an agent by his uncle Nuon Chea, notorious "Brother Number 2" to Pol Pot, to play off China and Russia spook handlers, through Pol Mak's Polish family connections. Behind the Iron Curtain his handler was Michal Grób. Pol Mak was flipped by the Poles, who were impressed with his multilingual mastery. To Western ears the Khmer language sounds like "crap-crap-crap, shit-shit-shit, shitty-shitty-crap-crap." Which, incidentally, is a famous Khmer poem written by Pol Pot, extolling the beauty of his human skull collection.

Noone's tasks included monitoring radio transmissions. In July 2008 he was in Phnom Penh keeping tabs on the trial of Nuon Chea. While scanning 6800-7000 kHz for encrypted milcoms he recorded several transmissions from Radio Jamba International, thanks or blame due to unusual long path propagation. "I heard the station operator, who called himself Kracker, repeatedly threaten someone named Al Fansome. You know that name?"

"Fansome!" I blurted. "Of course I know him. Well, I know of him. I'm not sure anyone really knows him. Fansome is his code name."

Al Fansome was his cover for lurking on the pirate radio scene, which is infested with Discordian elements (from which the title of this blog entry borrows steals -- GF) - programmers, hackers, Greenspun's Tenth Rulers, trolls and religious zealots masquerading as atheists who are embracing cults ironically while actually believing the cult tenets - one of which is to never believe the cult tenets. These are people who fearlessly divide by zero. Fansome operated at least two pirate radio stations, up until early 2010 or so. There may have been others but he's cagey even with allies.
"Pirate radio is infested with Discordian elements - programmers, hackers, Greenspun's Tenth Rulers, trolls and religious zealots masquerading as atheists who are embracing cults ironically while actually believing the cult tenets - one of which is to never believe the cult tenets.


"Yes, well, he was one of our contacts," continued Pol Mak. "Throughout 2008-2009, he transmitted our encoded messages, hidden in transmissions disguised as shortwave pirate radio entertainment broadcasts."

"I remember those," I said. "I noticed some odd pitch shifting in the Belinda Carlisle vocals. I mean, even more than Carlisle's usual chipmunk helium voice."

"Those pitch shifts correspond with number codes," Pol Mak explained. "Very old tech. The vocoder effect you hear so much in pop music, along with the more recent Auto-Tune, started out as milcom technology in the 1930s. Nobody uses it for that anymore. It's too easy to crack. But Fansome figured out a way to use it in pop songs where it would go unnoticed because it was buried in existing pitch-corrected vocals. Go-Go's songs were perfect since Carlisle's vocals could easily mask the codes. Not only were certain elements of the songs a code, but the spaces between the elements were codes."

"Sounds very Kabbalistic." I said. "Even if anyone suspected Carlisle's voice contained encrypted information, nobody could stand to listen to it long enough to decode it. Their ears would bleed after only a few seconds."

"Exactly, intended recipients had audio filters implanted to shield them from the harmful warbling. The filters were later adapted as the Deboxxifier filter for the Perseus SDR, making it the only receiver capable of safely tuning in to KBOX," said Pol Mak. "And it's even worse on shortwave in sideband, where it's impossible to tune the VFO to make those Carlisle vocals sound bearable.

"Unfortunately," he continued, "Fansome had to temporarily suspend the operation during the summer 2008 pirate war."

"Why?" I said, leaving a gaping portal for the tedious exposition to lumber through like Robert Redford's script for Lions for Lambs.

"Kracker," said Pol Mak. "He exposed Fansome's true identity on air. Threatened to dress up as a delivery boy (do they make delivery boy uniforms in leprechaun size?), show up at Fansome's workplace, where presumably the Krackwhore would gnaw on his ankle. Did I mention Fansome is a big guy? Apparently Kracker didn't know Fansome was a pirate op, or just didn't care. Real name. Addresses. But his intel was sloppy and he got at least one address wrong. Kracker said he got Fansome's personal info from the mailing list because he ordered a Commander Bunny t-shirt."

"You're fucking kidding me?" I sputtered, leaving room for more of Pol Mak's exposition narrative that would make Harrison Ford's listless voiceover narrative in the original release of Blade Runner seem poetic in comparison.

"I'm surprised that you're surprised," said Pol Mak. "Remember N9OGL? Omega One Radio? This goes back a few years. Pirates on the FRN told Daugherty he'd never be trusted because anyone who was careless about making his own real name and location public couldn't be trusted to maintain the privacy of other ops. And sure enough, Kracker's dogged and very public online feud with some ne'er-do-well named Skip Ohlsen ended up with Kracker's pirate radio alias and real name being included on publicly accessible court documents. He gnawed on Skip's bone until he made himself "famouse", to use his own term, because he was too stupid or arrogant to come up with a different online alias. And since he had no regard for his own privacy, why should anyone expect him to respect the confidentiality of other pirates? Same situation with Terry the Newfie. Kracker persisted in posting the Newfie's real name and geographic location online, even after Terry asked him to remove the photos and geographic location. No go. So the Newfie was forced to curtail plans to go on air with his own station. Kracker is genetically predisposed to being a snitch."

"How the fuck did a moron like Kracker get access to that kind of information?"

"We're not sure," said Pol Mak. "There are only a few possibilities. Sources say Kracker mooched the real names and addresses off the ebay vendor for WBNY schwag.

"The probable leak is Commander Bunny himself, who has been using a Virginia based ebay vendor to disseminate his own psyops materials: t-shirts with emblems containing tracking info that can be monitored via satellite; coffee mugs laden with zombification substances that gradually leach out into hot drinks; refrigerator magnets that emit mind control signals that cloud the judgment of anyone within 20 feet. It's fiendishly clever, with an effect similar to the alien spacecraft in the Stephen King novel The Tommyknockers. When anyone is within 20 feet of the magnets they believe anything CB tells them: There is only one pirate and His name is Commander Bunny; All of his enemies are pedophiles; Kracker is perfectly trustworthy; A lagomorph infected with myxomatosis who eats his own droppings will make a good president. Well, the latter is actually true - he would make a better president than the other shit-eaters in D.C.," Pol Mak continued.

"Whenever the recipients of CB's propaganda materials leave home, they begin to question the sanity of their beliefs," said Pol Mak. "But as soon as they return home, the location-specific mind control effects resume. Brilliant for ensuring the loyalty of his zombie subjects, especially moronic homunculi."

"What about JTA?" I countered. "He handles the mail drop."

"We don't believe JTA provided mail lists to Kracker," Pol Mak said. "He's on record as being pretty fed up with Kracker's insane rantings. JTA and L Cee are about the only mods on the FRN with any integrity. JTA was pretty pissed in December 2009 when CB - using his "Beans" and "Mosby" sockpuppets - and Cosmikdebris seemed to think it was perfectly okay to expose another pirate simply because CB didn't like the content of their broadcasts."

I was still stunned. Why would Kracker violate the one rule held sacred by pirate ops: Never expose the identity, location or other sensitive info of another pirate? Isn't this the same guy who posted photos of himself on his own blog, and then whined when Evil Elvis did the same?

"Why would Kracker violate the one rule held sacred by pirate ops: Never expose the identity, location or other sensitive info of another pirate?"


"Kracker was obsessed with Fansome," Pol Mak Erigot replied. "He sounded like a jilted stalker...
"


"Kracker was obsessed with Fansome, and couldn't cope with the rejection. So he appointed himself Commander Bunny's enforcement thug," Pol Mak replied. "In a way his devolution mirrored Saul becoming Paul on the road to Damascus. Different messiah, different group of pagans to be persecuted. Same song and dance.

"After that Kracker sounded like a jilted stalker, mixed in with a daddy complex and prison bitch syndrome. Not unusual for a leprechaun sized homunculus made from shit and sperm. Most of those abominations are uncontrollable and suffer from serious mental delusions. Their inability to tell the difference between a practical joke and real life closely mimics the psychopathy of humans with Asperger's Syndrome, which explains Kracker's obsession with Jay S., whom Kracker subconsciously recognizes as a brother. In fact, Discordian pranksters from an O.T.O. spinoff created the Church of the SubGenius specifically to exploit the stupidity of this particular type of homunculus. On the plus side, this type of homunculus makes colorful sparks and psychedelic smoke patterns when tossed into a fire. You should try it when you're tripping."

Pol Mak continued: "Agency profilers said Kracker's obsession with Fansome indicated the Krackwhore had a strong latent sexual identity confusion, which led to feelings of guilt and inadequacy. Note his preoccupation with homophobia - I mean, how many shows do you need just to call Mike Gaukin gay? What about Kracker's unfunny, missed-the-point memegenerator pokes at Artie Bigley? That sort of obsession smacks of a guy who spends way too much time browsing gay porn sites while wearing latex chaps, with one hand in his lap choking the chicken while ranting about how gay porn is destroying America. The latent instability was exacerbated by Kracker's unnatural origin as a homunculus made from the shit of his hero, Commander Bunny, and jism of CB's arch enemy Radio Bob. While he physically appears to be in his 40s, in fact he's only 12 years old mentally and emotionally because the homunculus was created in 1999. So, like most homunculi, he's capable only of self gratification and rage, although he can fake a few human-like characteristics long enough to fool unwary stoners."

"So what happened?" I asked. Although I already knew the answer, I was running short of segues for this blog entry and resorted to awkward exposition. "In the past exposing the identity of another pirate op always resulted in the offender being shunned for life and subject to continued ridicule. Look what happened to Radio Bob after he outed Bill O. Rights and Commander Bunny 10 years ago. How did Kracker escape being shunned?"

"Too risky," said Pol Mak. "We still needed Fansome to continue the encrypted transmissions. If we'd made a fuss about Kracker exposing another pirate op, Fansome's cover would have been blown. Keep in mind that Fansome's carefully cultivated shtick is feigning the guise of a clueless listener to divert any suspicion that he was also an op. He had to maintain plausible deniability about his involvement in covert communications. And it worked well until Kracker became infatuated with Al and couldn't stop talking about him online and on air."

Transcript of Kracker's heart-rending love song to Al Fansome, while doing his best impression of a typical day on 14275 or 14313 kHz when VE7KFM and the gang are warming up the airwaves. Since my last efforts at remixing another pirate's audio resulted in Commander Bunny accusing some poor schlub whom I don't even know of being a child molester, for now I'm confining my remixing to editorial rewrites. --GF

Note: If embedded audio player malfunctions, you can access these audio clips via the embedded player on the Internet Archives site, or by downloading here and playing on your own media player.

Kracker serenades Al Fansome, July 2008, 6955 kHz (please excuse the shitty audio quality, but it suits the material):



"Hey, Al Fansome... (static)... I'm talking to stalking you. That's right, Al Fansome, Al Fansome, Al Fansome... Al Fansome. I'm talking to stalking you, you traitorous fucking delicious piece of shit cake. Cross me again, motherfucker.

"Post on the internet. Post about me! Go ahead, post on, motherfucker. I'm gonna make your life miserable lulzable. I meet eat you at the fucking Winterfest... I've got your fucking address! You ordered a fucking t-shirt!

"I can drive to your fucking business, (Huh? 'Fucking business?' Fansome is a pimp? --GF) the computer store, it's 20 miles
away from Smolinski's fucking house (Chris too!?!), I come there and say... 'I want who's in charge?' (I guess that'd be the pimp?)

"Okay, you know what I'm saying? (Yes, we know what you're saying, you cute li'l leprechaun stalker.) I can act like the postal delivery guy (Okay, but can you do it in that cute li'l green latex leprechaun costume with the cut-out in the butt, like you did at Mardi Gras?). 'Special delivery for Al Fansome. Special delivery, okay? Who's Al Fansome? Oh, well, he's right back there in the office.' I come back there and beat you (off? You tease, you!) within an inch of your fucking life, with my bare hands, until I have fucking bloody spermy (unintelligible, sounds like "face")... I will do that, I will beat you (off) until (unintelligible oral masturbation from Krackwhore while Peter Gabriel "Shock Spanks the Monkey" in background)...

"Yes... (unintelligible) I am saying this live, so record it and be sure to go after me via the federal authorities, that would be like right up your fucking alley wouldn't it?

"You want my fucking address, motherfucker, Jesus fucking christ Jiminy Farting Christmas, you piece of shit cake..."

(Segment omitted in which Kracker refers to Fansome's real name and city.)

Just kinda makes you want to break out the credit card to buy a Commander Bunny t-shirt and give your personal information to a lunatic on the internet, doesn't it?

Oh, here's yet another love song from Kracker to a pirate radio fan, 7 July 2008, 6925 USB, around 0200 UTC:
Yeah, we sorta bleeped out the name and replaced it with a genuine pig squealing.

If you enjoy this sorta radio entertainment, especially if you enjoy it more than actual pirate radio, you'll love the cannibal hamsters who infest 14275 and 14313 USB (they sorta swap freqs over time): This is where Kracker should devote his considerable talents.

Don'cha luv radio tuff guys? They're almost as scary as internet wise Guise.

Oh, wait...


I shook my head in disbelief. "There must have been other listeners who heard this and said nothing."

"Again, go back to the standard set by Commander Bunny for his cult, which states 'Never expose or harass a good pirate'. Notice the qualifier?" said Noone. "The only 'good pirate' is CB and his minions. Therefore, all others can be exposed. L Ron Hubbard employed the same standard in his own offshoot of O.T.O., and called it "fair game" and "dead-agenting". You see this in every mind-control, moneymaking cult, whether it's Scientology, Amway, Church of the SubGenius, the Tea Party, the FCC or the Fabulous Rabbit Nuthuggers - which under the bunnyman's heavy paw is the de facto pirate radio enforcement thug branch of the FCC. Notice how Kracker is a minion of both Stang's SubGenius scam and of the FRN cult temple? Cults for morons who think they're too smart to be suckered by cults. Morons like that are ideal for cult scams. I wish I could clone more of him for my own cult, but while there's plenty of rabbit shit the supply of Radio Bob jism has dried up."

Fair Game (Scientology)
"[Suppressive Persons]... "The purpose ... is to harass and discourage rather than to win... enough harassment on somebody who is simply on the thin edge anyway... will generally be sufficient to cause his professional decease. If possible, of course, ruin him utterly".
--L. Ron Hubbard 1955 order

"[Suppressive Persons]... May be deprived of property or injured by any means by any Scientologist without any discipline of the Scientologist. May be tricked, sued or lied to or destroyed."
--L. Ron Hubbard 1965 order
Dead Agent (Scientology)
"If there will be a long-term threat, you are to immediately evaluate and originate a black PR campaign to destroy the person's repute and to discredit them so thoroughly that they will be ostracized."
-- L. Ron Hubbard, 1974, Handling Hostile Contacts/Dead Agenting
Fair Game (Rabbit Cult)
"This guy [Doc John of Northern Relay Service] doesn't belong in the pirate community. We've always taken care of problems within our own group. This guy is a problem. A big problem. He is being encouraged by a poster named "LEX" on HF Underground, so you know all the facts. We've dealt with trouble makers in the past and if they are ignored, they go away. If you have a solution, you think will work, do it, for the sake of pirate radio..."
--Commander Bunny order, March 2011

"CB set the limbo bar standard for pirate confidentiality so low that only rodents, snakes and cockroaches could crawl through," Pol Mak Erigot said with a shrug.

"With his cover blown, Fansome had to set up a new station in a western U.S. ghost town for awhile. It was tricky because he couldn't use the same Go-Go's and Belinda Carlisle songs. And the new songs weren't as readily adaptable to the vocoder effect. But it turned out that Warren Zevon songs had already been used by mercs in Rhodesia for coded radio comms in the field. The trick was in the song order, which shifted with each transmission to correspond with one-time number pads.

"Anyway," continued Pol Mak, "the operation ended in 2010, right around the ass-end the solar cycle. And we got word the FCC began scrutinizing shortwave pirate ops again. There were even unsubstantiated rumors that someone within the FRN was leaking location info to the FCC, but we know of only one person there who has repeatedly claimed to be acquainted with anyone in the FCC. So Fansome went underground, got a new identity and cached his transmitting equipment until things cool off. He gave us the go-ahead to release this info now, although he did request that we not specify the station IDs he used, since these may be revived sometime in the future."

So now we can confirm that, yes, Kracker is a snitch, did expose another pirate op's identity and has been permitted free rein to repeatedly harass other ops - some of whom are generally known "only" as listeners - as long as he continues to toss Commander Bunny's salad. Which, we hear, he enjoys with plenty of extra creamy, milky white Rabbit Ranch dressing.

Kracker was unavailable for comment as of press time but reportedly is now undergoing analysis after blowing an O-ring while occupied as an analyst for MS-13 where he was known by the code name "Mi Ano Duele". Dr. Zoidberg has something soothing for that.
From Images



Video of the Right Fu Kung Nao: "do you want the total war?" Nope, not the classic Boyd Rice/NON version, but just as much fun and only 25 seconds long. WATCH IT NOW!

Saturday, April 9, 2011

Fester, Part 3: Furpocalypse Now!

After a couple of weeks in rehab to recover from over-Festing indulgence, Brown Nose the Pirate returns to file what he describes as part 3 of 4 in his Winter SWL Fest 2011 trilogy.

RP wonders whether he was released too soon.

"We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar"
--The Hollow Men, T.S. Eliot


A big guy with an even bigger head wearing a cheese hat opens the door. For some reason I'm thinking Riff Raff from Rocky Horror, only gone to pot. Maybe it's the slack white hair and overhanging forehead. "Enter freely and of your own will," he says without any hint of welcome, "and leave behind your happiness, eh?"

I don't wanna seem too suspicious so I take in the room, casually, over his shoulder. The light's dim, greenish, and I can't see clearly, just shapes moving around. I move toward the threshold for a better look and walk into, I dunno, like a wall of soft putty. I tap my palm against it. It makes a hollow plonk with a low reverberation, like an untuned kettle drum. Transparent stuff, like glycerin, but the view through it is warped and twisted. I squint at Riff Raff.

Riff Raff snorts and says "I can't help you. If you want to enter the rabbit hole, you're on your own."

I poke the stuff with a finger. Won't quite go through, but feels like it might with a pen or knife. I don't have either one on me. Thanks, TSA, can't carry anything sharper than a crayon on flights now. I'm fishing through my jacket pockets and find a small piece of plastic card with some wires. I pull it out - a Tiny Tenna. Hadn't worked in years since the wires all pulled loose from the sloppy solder joints. Thought I'd thrown it away. I use the edge of the raw circuit board to slice open the pwdre sêr, enough to slip in one hand. The wound is trying to close so I let go of the Tiny Tenna and use both hands to pull apart an aperture and slip through as the slit closes with a flubbering bloomp sound. The Tiny Tenna is stuck in the goo, leaving a gash in the portal. Just as well, first time the piece of crap was useful.

A couple of Scrats - Mosby and Thumper on their collars - dart past my ankles, shinny up the portal and vomit up ectoplasm to patch the gash. That's what I just crawled through? Again I feel the tequila and beer doing the backstroke up my throat.

"Take these," says Riff Raff, shoving beer and cigarettes toward me.

"I don't smoke," I say, trying to wave him off but he pushes them into my hands anyway.

"Then don't inhale," he growls, "but you'll want 'em to kill the stink. This hutch hasn't been cleaned all w
eek."

Soon's I grab the brew and smokes he's reaching up into a hole in his cheese hat and pulls out a pad of paper and thrusts it toward me.

"What's this?" I mutter, turning the pad around, trying to read in the dim green light.


"Signal reports. Official WBNY signal reports."

"They're already filled out," I say, flipping through the pad. "Every one of 'em. 'SIO-555. Beautiful AM signal! Perfect audio! Brilliant programming! No one does it like Commander Bunny!'" Only thing not filled out are the check boxes next to the dozens of relays listed. "The dates and times are already filled out for these relays. They haven't even been aired yet." I point to the pads.

Riff Raff snorts dismissively. "Just fill 'em out and turn them in. Don't make trouble. Just check the boxes. Don't make things worse for me here, awright? Don't be a smartass. Just work with me." He stalks back toward the door.

"Hey, where is he?" I call toward his back, but Riff Raff is gone. I don't see anyone else I recognize.
I'm thinking I knew the risks, or imagined I knew. But the thing I felt the most, much stronger than fear, was the desire to confront him.

I look around and try to get a fix on the huge, dark, hazy room. I can see animals milling around, some in small packs, all on hind legs. Furries. Fucking place was full of 'em. I'm wishing Boomer was here. Only sane furry I knew of in the whole pirate radio scene. And even he was crazy, had a rep as a demolition expert, homemade grenades or some crazy shit.

A wild-eyed hippie with a grizzled beard scuttles toward me from across the room, three or four Nikons dangling from his neck and shoulders, clattering together, his ponytail flailing behind him from beneath a paisley bandanna tied around his head. "Hey, friend! Hey, hey, howya doin', howya doin', now watch out for those socks... on the floor! on the floor! Right, and watch out, those goddam Scrats bite, I tell ya, worst case of rabies and mxyomatosis you'll ever see. Hey, I'm Zoidberg, a Decapodian, Decapod DXer, photojournalist, and you got the cigarettes and beer and that's what I've been dreaming of, they won't give ya shit in here unless you're a furry, I dunno how you got so lucky," he speed talks as I hand over the smokes and brew.

As my eyes adjust to the dim light I can see bodies on the floor. Headless bodies, at the base of short antennas. A head impaled atop each antenna. Hotel note paper stuffed into their mouths, with "Nasty signal report!!!" scrawled on the notes. "Ruining it!" on another. "Nasty attacks!" "Destroying pirate radio!!!" Crude drawings of apes sketched on the death warrants.

CB is close. He's real close. I can't see him yet but I can feel him.

"The heads," Zoidberg mumbles, sounding embarrassed. "At the heads, you're looking. He even put Fansome's head up there. I, uh - sometimes he goes too far, you know - he's the first one to admit it! Well, I mean, not him, per se, but, umm... Pat, you know, Pat always... smooths things out after CB, y'know..."

"Fansome's not dead," I say.

"Yes, he is, I mean look, the head, the sign..."

"Take my word for it," I say, "he's not dead. He's not a human. He's more of a ca... anyway, that's not his body," I kick the body, and straw pops out. I look closer at the impaled heads and tap one - hollow. Fake. All the bodies, fake. Straw men.

"Remember us — if at all — not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men."


"Who are all these peop... furries?" I ask, looking around the room.

"His children, all his children, far as the eye can see. They think you're here to attack, umm... destroy... nasty, uh, y'know, um, ruin, ah, ruin it... all... and, uh... I hope that isn't true," he's babbling. Guy sounds like he's reciting a script, political talking points, and not doing a good job at it. I'd heard this Zoidberg character was smart but right now he seems like another buzzed up publicity flack.

"I'm just here to talk with him," I say. "He asked for me, so..."

"Hey, man, you don't talk to the Commander. You listen to him. CB has enlarged my mind... well, my QSL collection, anyway. He's a poet-warrior in the classic sense that, um, Bill O'Reilly is a pleasant guy or Tiger Woods is a faithful husband. I mean sometimes he'll, uh, well, you'll say 'Hey, I heard your show last night', right? And he'll just walk right by you, and he won't even notice you, no QSL, nothing. And suddenly he'll grab you, and he'll access your IP information and expose your identity and home address, call you a child molester, insult your family, and he'll say 'Do you know that "you" is the middle word in "ruin" and "ass" is the middle word in "nasty" and "hole" is the middle word in Muscle Shoals, Alabama. Get it? YOU... ASS... HOLE.'

"I mean I'm no, I can't - I'm a little DXer, I'm a little DXer, he's, he's a great rabbit. I should have been a pair of ragged claws scuttling across floors of silent seas, whoop-whoop-whooping in search of a stink gland..."

"Shut the fuck up," I suggest. "If you talk again I'll punch you in the nuts."

I shrug off the sense of dread and move toward the center of the room. It smells like slow death in here, myxomatosis, madness. The floor is covered with urine soaked cedar shavings, droppings that look like brown M&Ms... and socks. Everywhere. Dirty socks. I nudge one with my toe. It sticks to my boot like it's covered in jizz. I bend down to look... fucksake, it is covered in jizz. I stagger backward, scrubbing my boot toe in the cedar shavings to wipe off the stuff, and step on another sock, this one stiff and stained.

"STOP KICKING MY FRIENDS!" a voice booms from a darkened corner across the room. I can just make out a pair of long ears through the dim haze.

"The socks, man, watch the socks, why don't you!" Zoidberg yells. "They're his friends... his best pseu... his friends... they speak, um, for him, you know? They help him communicate complex messages, uh... about his... superior philosophy and..." He trails off to gather his thoughts, then grabs one off the floor and holds it out at claw's length.

"Look! This is one of his favorites, see, it's still wet and sticky, he's used it a lot lately to rub out, umm, work out some, uh, complex problems about the FCC and government shutdowns and... radio... free speech, and... stuff."

"PUT BILLO DOWN!" roars the voice from across the room.

"Hrrrng poots!!!" comes a muffled voice from my left.


I pivot left, bumping my knee into someone's extended leg. It's covered in gauze... the whole body is covered in gauze, stained, soaked in yellow-green and suddenly I recognize the stench. Pus. Festering wounds. Seen it before, the last Great Pirate War of 2008, the one that never seemed to end.

"HRRRNGG POOOTSSS!!!" the mummy man wails.

"What's with him," I ask Zoidberg. He covers up his crotch with a camera bag. "Go ahead, I'm not going to punch you in the nuts."

"RF burns," he says. "Worst case anyone's ever seen. Can't be around a transmitter more than 10 watts now. He thinks that's huge power, thinks it can be heard at SIO-555 all around the world, but don't try to tell him any different. He's dying of terminal butthurt from it."

"Ppp hrrrng poots..." the mummy mumbles.

"What's he saying?" I ask.

"'Stop hurting the pirates!' It's pretty much all he says. Nobody knows beans about what he means by it. Pieces of him fall off, maybe?"

"Hey, hey," Zoidberg calls to a passing furry. "Fluff up his beanbag chair, get those beans arranged better to make him comfortable, why don't you? You gotta get the beans just right or he'll whine and cry all the time, try to hit you when you're just talking with the guy. Hey!" yells Zoidberg, way too loud, "Beans bag pus covered grouchy mummy guy, it's been years since medical school, so remind me: Butthurt in your species, fatal or non-fatal?"

While he's distracted by the mummy man I notice a zombie Elvis impersonator shuffling toward the door. I grab him by the arm. The arm comes off, still clutching a tote bag full of WBNY pogey bait. He stares transfixed at the QSL swag.

"Hey, Elvis, Evil Elvis," I whisper. He looks at me and grins. At least I think he's grinning... hard to tell with zombies - no lips.

"I need a favor, buddy," I say, and hand him my iPhone, loaded with a custom BCS app. "These are the co-ordinates for an air strike from Canada. If you don't see me back downstairs at the bar in one hour, call it in. The code is Furpocalypse, coordinates 6925. That's the order for the Canadians to drop a massive payload of butthurt trollbombs and begin the Psy-Fudd campaign. Can you do that? There might be a pennant in this for you."

Evil Elvis just grins and nods. Or maybe his last neck sinew just popped loose, I can't tell. I hand him his arm, still attached to the WBNY tote bag. "Sorry about that, buddy, you can probably glue that back on."

Evil Elvis shuffles toward the ectoplasm portal and just melts right through. There are advantages to being mostly dead.

(To be continued - Part 4 of the Fester trilogy.)


Video of the Now: Sick of sockpuppets? You won't be after Sifl & Olly declare monkey love to be crescent fresh! But Bouncer? Not cress.

Sunday, March 27, 2011

Commander Bunny's true identity revealed!


"Murdered by pirates is good..."
--The Princess Bride

RP's sooper sekrit network of oh-noes-ninjas! infiltrated the Furry Rodent Nuthuggers and discovered the true identity of infamous shortwave pirate radio legend Commander Bunny.

Those who closely follow the U.S. shortwave pirate radio scene know the myxomatosis carrier is a legend in his own mind (and, to be fair, in troof), whose heritage gains another decade with each retelling. In the early 2000s he claimed to date back to the 1990s. By the mid-2000s he claimed WBNY was born and bred not in a briar patch but in the 1980s. By 2011 his lineage had scurried down a rabbit hole in the Tardis and pre-dated itself to the 1960s. While we fans of the bunnyman (yes, we are one, sarcastic bastards though RP may be) pondered the riddle of rabbit-time, a gift fell into our filthy beer-stained laps, in the form of a lulzy screencap.

Turns out behind that careworn furry mask Commander Bunny is none other than (drum roll, pl0x)... Dread Pirate Roberts!!1one!!11eleven!!

"Good night, Commander Bunny. Good work. Sleep well.
I'll most likely kill you in the morning."
--Dread Pirate Roberts

Sekrit Skwirrel managed to snatch this copy of a rabbity rant fresh off the Vines, just before someone thought better of it and vamoosed the evidence back into the vault.

Feast your jaded peepers on this gen-you-whine document salvaged from the FRN, guaranteed to be hardly shooped at all. (Max rez version for download.)

An excerpt from the now-deleted thread tells all:


"The other BS floating around the internet is that I'm not the "real" Commander *****. Seems I have to explain this every 5 years to the newbie monkeys over 9000 penises who think they know it all! I AM THE REAL COMMANDER ***** YOU DUMB ASSES!

"There have been 5 Commander *****'s over the years. Commander ***** dates back to the 60's and has been passed along to only the most deserving and meritorious Rabbits. You know like the Phantom (oh ghost who walks).

"I am the latest incarnation of Commander *****. Unquestionably the most inventive, intelligent and prolific, and whomever the Rabbit is that takes it over from me, has big paws to fill!"

--Commander Bunny bunnifesto, 3/18/11



He seems... I don't know... grumpy.

But how f*****g awesome is that! Even with the cryptic asterisks, the f*****g awesomeness provokes me into yet another spasm of metafictional bliss. I'm betting the original Commander Asterisk must have been William Goldman himself!

Buttercup: You're the Dread Pirate Roberts, admit it.
Commander Bunny: With pride. What can I do for you?
Buttercup: You can die slowly, cut into a thousand pieces.

We're guessing the original Commander ***** must have been loitering in the Saigon whorehouse room beneath Dave Rabbit's when Radio First Termer was oddcasting. The RFT mojo seeped through a rabbit hole in the floor and splooged all over the first poor fellow whose destiny it was to become the progenitor of a long line of talented, entertaining and increasingly curmudgeonly harecasters.

We note that ComBun is still struggling with the concept of "free". Free pogey bait from WBNY = good. Free speech on IRC or by "competitors" on radio = EVIL, GO DIE IN A FIRE!!! Ohh, the lolocaust.

Now, you didn't actually think we'd really expose ComBun's real identity did you? FFS, we may be trolls but we're not snitches. We leave that job to the bunny mafia. (More about that in an upcoming article.)


"Dread Commander Bunny had grown so rich, he wanted to retire.
He took me to his Montana cabin and he told me his secret.
'I am not the Dread Commander Bunny' he said. 'My name is ****...'"


"His name was 'asterisk' too?"

"Yes, well, never mind... I inherited the FRN from the previous
Dread Commander Bunny, just as you will inherit it from me.
The man I inherited it from is not the real Dread Commander Bunny either.
His name was **********. The real Bunny has been retired
15 years and living like a king on the Outer Banks.'"



Got any lulzy or informative screencaps or HTML copies to share? Drop RP a line. We don't pick on the FRN exclusively (at the moment we're just way behind on so much FRN hilarity it only seems like we're picking on them - hey, when you're the best, as you always affirm, ya gotta be ready for bushwhackers like RP). If it's radio-related and srsly funny we wanna hear the juice. We'd prefer unedited copies or screen shots - we'll do the shooping around here, varmints.

And only a moron would drop docs on anyone in the pirate radio scene, including people you think are "only" listeners - some of them are also ops. First of all, it violates the Prime Directive. Second, we don't give a shit. The real identities of most people in the pirate radio scene are irrelevant. As veteran FRN leader Pat Murphy often reminds us, much of pirate radio is a magic act - we don't need or even want to know how it's done. Only a very few people in pirate radio (for example, commercial broadcast media figures or those with political connections) might be considered "public figures" by most news media standards and cannot expect the same degree of privacy and anonymity. If we spot sockpuppets we'll check 'em for holes ourselves laugh. We're not here to fuck up people's real lives. But having fun with online shenanigans is fair game. And if you are so wrapped up in your pirate persona that you think it's real life, umm... it's not that important. Go take some food to a struggling family. Drive an elderly or handicapped neighbor to their doctor's appointment. Masturbate. All these are more important than pirate radio. Unless you're Lad, in which case masturbating while on air is probably a priority.

Until next time... have fun stormin' da castle! And stay tuned for the wrap-up of the Fester Trilogy, to be published as soon as BNtP comes out of his Jenkem-induced coma. Not fer nuttin' is he called Brown Nose the Pirate.

And for bumfuzzled lurkers, Commander Bunny is among the most talented and prolific shortwave pirate radio figures. Also occasionally rather too fond of the smell of his own farts, but aren't most creative people furries? (Actually his sockpuppeting nuthuggers are more pestiferous than ComBun hisself since they occasionally manage to f4g up the FRN so badly there isn't a facepalm in the world large enough to contain the samef4ggotree.) You can nibble from his garden by downloading or streaming audio from his various shows hare or hare, and friend him grovel to his majesty hare. He also offers excellent QSL packages for confirmed signal reports. RP has none since our unfunny efforts at degassing the lagomorph prolly don't endear us to his hareness. But we might ask for some pogey bait after we're safely behind seven maildrops.

Brown Nose the Pirate: Is very strange. I have been in the revenge business so long, now that it's over, I don't know what to do with the rest of my life.
Commander Bunny: Have you ever considered piracy? You'd make a wonderful Dread Commander Bunny.
BNtP: Really? You think so?
ComBun: No. You're a troll. You're ruining pirate radio. Burn in hell.

Saturday, March 19, 2011

Fester, Part 2

As we resume our tale, RP remembers why we seldom approve per diem for Brown Nose the Pirate's freelance DXpeditions.

The ICOM elevator stops, but we're between the sixth and seventh floors. I can hear a garbled, whining voice coming from the hallway. I'm reaching for the emergency phone when the Jay-Kracker hybrid calmly raises a hand to indicate I should wait. "Our destination is between the sixth and seventh storeys," he explains.

With one hand he gently pats the Kracker-shaped lump under his tent-sized t-shirt and mutters "Shhh... shhh... my little feejee mermaid." With the other hand he slides open a hidden compartment on the control panel to reveal a tuning knob labeled "Jog Storey." He turns the dial slowly and the digital display reads 6.300... 6.350... 6.400... "This old ICOM elevator is slow," he says. "The internal backup battery died last year and the software was screwed up. We're hoping for an upgrade from ICOM by next Fest."

"You should get a software defined elevator," I suggest.

He glares at me. "Those things without real knobs? No, thanks."

The shrill voice outside the door is still mostly garbled and unintelligible, but seems familiar.

"You have meddled with the primal forces of nature, and I won't have it! Is that clear? You think you've merely stopped a few stations. That is not the case!"

I tilt an ear toward the elevator door, trying to recognize the voice. It seems familiar.

"Yes," Jay replies, "it's him. But no one ever hears him clearly until we reach nearly the seventh storey." He continued fine tuning "6.900... 6.915... 6.925..." and the voice snapped into sudden clarity.

"...have taken over frequencies, and now they must give them back! It is ebb and flow, tidal gravity! It is ecological balance! These are the enemies. There are no pirates but me! There are to be no slack-jawed, lip-drooling, knuckle-draggers! You will serve as vice president at my pleasure! Don't tell me about your Bowling League. Did you really believe they'd have any say in this? There is only one holistic system of systems, one vast and immane, interwoven, interacting, multivariate, multinational dominion...

The elevator door slides open, obscuring the shrill keening for a moment.

"...of me!"

I look up. We're on floor 6.925, a hidden storey between the 6th and 7th. I step toward the hall but Jay urgently waves me back. It's only been a few minutes since my last shot of Cuervo and Mickey's chaster but I'm getting antsy. And that suckling sound under Jay's carnival sideshow of a t-shirt is grating my nerves.

"Wait!" he hisses. "Listen!" And I do. The oddly pitched voice careening down the hall toward us is scouring my ears like a steel wool Q-tip dipped in Comet cleanser.

"My QSL packages will determine the totality of life on this planet! That is the natural order of things today. That is the atomic and subatomic and galactic structure of things today! And YOU have meddled with the primal forces of nature, and YOU... WILL... ATONE! Am I getting through to you, Kracker? You get up on your little 10 watt Corsair and howl about Bozo and Fansome and asshats and free speech and how you won't QSL and then you play Grateful Dead songs that nobody gives a crap about. There is no Bozo! There is no Fansome! There is no free speech! There is only WBNY and our affiliates and our mighty 8-watt International Relay Service!" (The voice is like Judge Doom from Who Framed Roger Rabbit, when he was dissolving in Dip. Only more annoying, if that's possible.)

"But people will think I'm an asshole."
(I'm hearing another voice... like Kracker's voice... but it can't be... he's in here, under Jay's shirt...) "I mean, just this week I accused Mr. Announcer of being a sockpuppet for Radio Ronin Shortwave and I fucked up. I forgot that Mr. Announcer is the op for CYOT. So I had to delete my post to cover my butt. Maybe he'll quit, I don't know. He seems so polite. I shouldn't be such an asshole all the time..."

"You are an asshole! Never forget it! It's what you do best! As my vice president your job is to troll my enemies, flame them, discourage them, chase them away from my Furry Rodent Network, For Rabbit Nuthuggers only!"

"But Pat always told us to never attack another pirate..."

"DOES PAT SEEM LIKE HE'S IN CONTROL OF ANYTHING ANYMORE?!?"
(Came the shrieking voice.)

"I guess not. But why me?"


"Because you're on the radio, dummy. Six people listen to you every time you broadcast.
Consider yourself lucky that you're not one of my designated nut polishers. That job is for Mosby and Thumper."

"I have seen the face of God."

"You're goddam right. Never forget it. Now get the fuck out of here and sell some of my t-shirts. Take plenty of extra large. The lobby is full of overweight middle aged DXers."

Jay motions me out of the elevator. A door slams open and shut again, toward the end of the hall where the shrieking voice seemed to be. A haggard 40-ish guy wearing aviator sunglasses shuffles past, shaking his head. Suddenly I recognize him - it's Kracker. "Fuck you, Bozo," he mutters without enthusiasm as he passes.

"Love you more," Jay replies gently.

Fuck me again, I'm thinking, and nearly swivel my head off spinning around to look at the lump under Jay's shirt.

Jay chuckles, bitterly. "You thought this thing suckling from my belly was Kracker? No. It's a clone, one of Dr. Benway's experiments gone horribly awry. Benway made it for me after culturing bits of spittle from Kracker's roaches and beer bottles and droplets of bile from his vomit. I suppose Benway thought I would punish and torture it as the real thing has tormented me." He paused for a moment, deep in thought.

"It's as cruel as the real thing, and even more effective at manipulating me into feeling sorry for it and putting up with its abuses." Jay looked down and rubbed the squirming lump. "My little homunculus. My little bit of revenge." He looked up sadly and muttered "Be careful what you wish for."

Benway, I'm thinking... I should have known he'd be mixed up in this. I watch the real Kracker shuffling dejectedly down the hall where he raps out a coded knock on a door. A few muffled words are exchanged and the door is opened. After Kracker enters the room a lank-haired guy peers out into the hallway with nervous, ferretlike energy. He looks like Robert Crumb. I'm half expecting Fat Freddy to show up next. He catches my glance and vanishes like his head was yanked back on a leash, leaving a cloud of smoke and Ozium behind.

"Cosmikdebris," Jay says, behind me.

I nod my head. "Sure, makes sense."

"This way," he says, indicating the room from which the shrieking voice had come. The coniglio di tutti conigli. I'm thinking of my Sheridan Blue Streak .20 cal. pump back home. One pill to the head always did the trick on lagomorphs. But this one had a serious mean streak. It had survived several assassination attempts and seemed to thrive on venom, bile and spite. Only the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch would do, and the nearest armory was in Pittsburgh at Our Lady of Perpetual Hostility.

I'm thinking back to my days as a covert anti-therapist/debriefing specialist for Benway, back when major medical insurance covered T.D, Total Demoralization. That was before Kaczynski, before the media found out what we really did. I remember Benway's theory:

"An agent is trained to deny his agent identity by asserting his cover story. So why not use psychic jiu-jitsu and go along with him? Suggest that his cover story is his identity and that he has no other. His agent identity becomes unconscious, that is, out of his control..."

Yeah, I'm thinking, why not. It might work. Rumor had it the bunnyman was a spook in a former life. Rumor had it he'd broken, lost the veils between his multiple cover aliases and his true identity... if there ever was one. Probably already primed for a post-hypnotic suggestion. All I needed was the key word or phrase. I mentally sorted through the triggers we'd been using to provoke predictable rages. Had to be one of those... maybe an offhand mention of a Canadian pirate radio station was all it took.

Jay rapped out a peculiar pattern on the door: .-- -... -. -.--

I'm looking down and see a shadow break across the green light under the door. The door cracks open. An acrid odor wafts by... old cedar shavings, urine and something hellish that seemed familiar.

Jay gestures for me to go in. For a moment I'm transfixed by the growing wet splotch on his t-shirt where his little Kracker-homunculus is suckling on... what? I shake my head, take a deep breath and move toward the door.

"Be careful what you wish for!" Jay hisses sharply, then turns and stalks away.


(To be continued.)