On Thu, 15 Aug 2002 23:54:01 GMT, Keith <n6jpa_spam@attbi.com>
wrote:
> Ok David, Let's play GPS dude goes Black Pearl diving
> here on ARS.
If you insist:
From: shy_david@nospam.org (Shy David www.xenu.net)<br>
Subject: Gold Base Picket and Protest, 5 July 2000<br>
Date: Fri, 07 Jul 2000 02:42:56 GMT<br>
Message-ID: <39653fd3.12372598@nntp.lightlink.com><br>
Gold Base Picket and Protest, 5 July 2000
PROTEST: (1) To object to, especially in a formal statement. (2) To express strong objection. (3) To make an earnest avowal or affirmation. (4) A formal declaration of disapproval or objection issued by a concerned person, group, or organization.
PICKET: (1) A person or group of persons stationed outside a place of employment (such as during a labor strike) to express grievance or protest and discourage entry by non-striking employees or customers. (2) A person or group of persons present outside a building to protest.
THE DEVIL MADE ME DO IT.
Alas, I did not want to spend yet another day protesting Scientology’s crimes and abuses. It is a chore, and I would much rather be doing other things. Yet when I read about how the crime syndicate sent two thugs out to chase Keith Henson into the street and into traffic, presumably to injure or kill him, I felt compelled to once again register my protest against such criminal acts. I didn’t want to picket: Scientology’s OSA made me.
Barb Warr agreed. Keith needed help, but more importantly, we believe that Keith needed a show of support for what he was doing. Conversely, I vehemently oppose Keith’s being out there alone, and I went to Golden Era Productions with the specific intent to try to talk him out of picketing them alone. It was, and still is, my personal wish that Keith would cease the picketing and protesting of "Gold Base" alone, and go home.
Keith, if you are reading this, PLEASE consider this again. And for anyone else in A.R.S. who may be reading this, please consider going to "Gold Base" and picket with Keith. In my opinion he needs people out there with them: for his safety, as well as for protection against "manufactured crimes."
Speaking of "manufactured crimes," the Highway Patrol office has a copy of the Dreaded Crime of J-Walking that Keith committed as the two thugs chased him into traffic. The crime syndicate carried that tape, all bright eyed and flush with pleasure, to the HP office to try to get Keith fined and / or otherwise get him into trouble with the law. The law enforcement officers were livid with anger at these thugs chasing Keith into traffic, and had some very harsh words with the thugs--- Foot Bullet Number 332893 and counting!
MISTER SANDMAN, GIMME A DREAM.
Ah, where was I? Oh, yeah.
Wednesday Barb got about 6 hours of sleep and I got about two hours; we were therefore not totally firing on all eight cylinders, but we were still much, much sharper and aware and awake than your average OSA goon whom we were sure to meet. I grabbed Barb (so to speak) at 8:43AM and, with a stop for some compressed atmosphere (32 PSI), we were on our way.
Arrived at "Gold Base" at 10:28AM and saw Keith out there. The sight was, to say the least, astonishing bordering on the absurd.
Perhaps even farcical. Keith was in the middle of two goons: sort of like a Nabisco Entheta Cookie--- a center of truth pressed between dark, tasteless intimidators. While I was thinking "Wha’ th’ fuh?" Mistress Barb yelled out "LET ME OUT!" so I halted the vehicle and she leaped out with a bound that would have made Xena Warrior Princess green with envy. I went to go park, leaving the OSA goons in the hands of Mistress’ Barb’s cold, callous, stoic mercy.
I parked at David Miscavige’s house.
No, really.
CLARK KENT IS ON THE JOB.
In a hurry, I placed a microphone on my hat, ran the wire to my hand held GPS unit, grabbed a pad of paper and pen, and rushed off to "interview" Keith. By the time he and Barb arrived at where I had parked, the two goons had received their orders and were waiting for us. I pretended to be interviewing Keith.
"Mister Henson is it!?" I said very loudly, for the benefit of the OSA goons. "How do you spell that!? H E N S E N or is it H E N S O N?!" as we walked by his shadows. I pretended to write down Keith’s answers. Then I addressed his shadows.
"Hi! I’m from Sun Valley Times. After I’m finished interviewing Mister Henson here, may I interview you?" "Good morning Mister Rice," one said with a smirk. *POP!* went my balloon. Otch, it slayed; it wounded. My TR-L was definitely "not in." Barb and Keith laughed while I turned red. Now I know who my friends are.
Ah, "aren’t" I mean.
Trudge; trudge; trudge down the road we travailed, walking West on the Eastbound side of the road. Past interesting, yet very, very dead squirrels: none fresh enough to play with. I resisted the urge to pick one up and toss it to our shadows. RPFers never ate so well.
The five of us were much more noticeable than just Keith out there picketing alone. If the crime syndicate did not send their goons out to harass him, I suspect that a great many motorists would not even notice he is out there. One person with a sign is less attractive than FIVE PICKETERS / PROTESTERS outside protesting the crime syndicate’s abuses. Foot Bullet Number 332894 and counting!
BREAKING UP IS BARD TO DO.
Keith suggested we split up. I did not wish to separate from Mistress Barb (I exist just to serve her), so Keith went off about 30 yards while Barb and I paused at the roadside memorial for Ashlee Shaner. The two shadows seemed to be greatly confused by this sneaky, underhanded, diabolical, infernal Machiavellian bit of cunning on our part. They split up too.
We got the sorrier deal in the split, to say the least. Barb kicked off a round of "Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport" while I added the "wocka wolcka wocka" sound effects to go along (sorry: you’ll have to listen to the song to understand this bit of craziness).
A merry time was being had by all!
PHAëTHON TAKES THE REIGNS.
Uh, did I say "All?" Check that: our shadow was anything but merry. Anything but healthy, too. Or more to the point, on the verge of heat prostration. He was over weight, under hydrated, and hatless. My big, warm, "save the ugly mongrel puppy" heart went out to him. Phaeton seemed to have stolen dad’s chariot and parked it on our shadow’s head: the sun beat down upon him mercilessly. I offered water; I offered a hat; I offered advice--- all rebuffed without even a word, polite or otherwise.
I was hurt by the slight, but soon recovered.
Indeed, when we paused, he staggered to the nearest shade. He seemed very grateful to us for the break. Short-lived gratitude, alas.
"Let’s walk him to death," Mistress Barb suggested. I was game.
And that game consisted of us pausing for a water break out where there was no shade for our shadow. Since he was there to harass and "intimidate" us [rolling on the floor with laughter], it seemed only fitting that he pay the price for that offense.
Trudge; trudge; trudge our travail continued until 12:48PM upon whence we met up with Keith and we demanded a break. The heat was getting to me (lack of sleep, and the countryside around the area all conspired against my nasal passage to beat me senseless with an allergy), and pictures of iced tea danced before my eyes.
We split up and headed for our cars. Our shadow dogged us to the last centimeter. To ease his troubled, parboiled mind, I told him we were leaving for the day--- his demeanor brightened; I told him we would be back on Saturday--- his demeanor darkened. He had no way of knowing I was lying, but then he cannot even tell Hubbard’s blatantly apparent lies for the lies they are.
THESE BOOTS WERE MADE FOR STOMPIN’.
We drove to Ida’s house for lunch. My shoulder muscles were in a knot from hoisting the picket sign (note to Keith: BALSA WOOD!).
"Lay down, dog!" Mistress Barb commanded me. I did so. "On your face, worm!" she commanded again. I obeyed without question;
without hesitation. She then jumped on me. "Ooof!" I said.
"Silence, pond scum!" Mistress Barb demanded, as she stepped all over me. Stomp here; stomp there; hop, skip, jump elsewhere. I felt so unworthy of being stepped on by her; undeserving of her divine feet pressing hard upon my worthless, penitent body.
After I was properly humiliated, Mistress Barb jumped off me and we went to the lunch table. My back and shoulder muscles felt brand new: not a kink, not a knot, not a NOTs 34, nary a curl, twist, or bend.
LETTERS HOME.
The crime syndicate had Ida’s son and grandson send two very odd e-mails to her. To say these were "freaky" would be a gross understatement. It was as if a mad scientist had reanimated Joseph Goebbels’s corpse just so it could write two more pieces of propaganda. The intent of the e-mail was to convince her to eject Keith from her abode. The propaganda called Keith a "full-time hater," which made one and all break out in roaring laughter. We tried out variations on the theme.
"I’m a part-time hater myself" someone said. "I only hate when I’m on vacation" said another. "I’m scheduled to hate on alternate Tuesdays and Thursdays" said someone else.
The e-mail was as silly and absurd as the "Dead Squirrel" shore story. One might almost come to think that just one person was writing the crime syndicate’s propaganda / Public Relations bullcrap.
I THINK I’LL WING IT.
Chicken wings for lunch. I was rather looking forward to Soylent Gold on a stick, but the larder was not stocked with such. The salad was great; the bread and cheese was stupefying and throttled my brain with thoughts of relaxation, ease-taking, rest, and digestion. The ice cream put an exclamation point to that insolent necessitation.
"Let’s be off for more picketing!" Keith suggested. Well, ah, okay. Maybe a step or two, though all I wanted was a bath and a nap.
With a fond good-bye to Ida, we were off yet again. I did a few convoluted, meandering, perplexing, complicated turns around various streets to "lose our tail" as I put it (i.e., I got lost). Barb said she had the "power to cloud men’s minds," but only The Shadow Knows which answer is the correct one.
We got to "Gold Base" and parked near Ashlee’s memorial. That is, right in front of a crime syndicate camera. Parenthetical element: any bets that the crime syndicate takes down the license plate numbers and records the faces of those who stop there to give the dead girl’s memory their best wishes? Any bets they add those people to their long list of "enemies?"
We did a brief protest, just one circuit up and down the road.
Long enough to have the same two shadows come out and dog our heels--- only this time Mister Lobster had a hat on! I imagine he had an emergency auditing session after we left to determine the reason why he was suffering so much under the sun; the e-meter pointed to the place on the dial that read "Put on a damn hat, you stupid shit!" See, the "tech" DOES work!
TELL THAT TO THE IRS.
Keith went to his car: Barb and I strolled off to our ground transport vehicle, sickly and beet-red shadow trailing behind.
(This guy was not a clam: he was a lobster, fully cooked.) As we dumped the picket signs into the enturbmobile, I again reminded our shadow that we would be back on Saturday. He, in a sudden fit of magnanimity, good will, and friendship, said that he was paid US$800 a day just to walk behind us, and he thanked us for the work. Since Barb and I have contracted for 10 pickets at US$1,000 each, we could only laugh at his lower pay. I’m sure he is quite pleased he did not have to say his usual "Want fries with that?"
question to customers for the two days he was "employed" at "Gold Base."
We left in a car, not a huff. I for one was glad to be done with it. I did not want to be there; I do not want to go back--- picketing and protesting sucks. Keith seems determined to picket, regardless of his own personal safety, and my talk with him did not dissuade him. I had little hope that it would have, but I gave it a shot.
On the drive back to San Diego, all of Hemet’s great fields of pollen ganged up on me and did so smite my eyes and nose that a plague of toads falling from the sky would have been less a distraction from driving. I take this as clear unequivocal proof that Oat Tea Powerz exist and were concentrated upon my crashing us into a cement pillar. Barb seemed placid and cool in the face of this almost certain death. Fortunately, we made it to San Diego without mishap.
---- http://desertphile.org Terrorists do not frighten me. George Bush does!
From: HR-Defense@aol.com (Human Rights Defense (ShyDavid))
Subject: Re: Watch your P's & Q's Protesters
Date: Sat, 17 Aug 2002 06:10:23 GMT
Organization: -NONE-
Message-ID: <3d5de8ce@news2.lightlink.com>
On Thu, 15 Aug 2002 23:54:01 GMT, Keith <n6jpa_spam@attbi.com>
wrote:
> Ok David, Let's play GPS dude goes Black Pearl diving
> here on ARS.
If you insist:
"Gold Base" French-German ICBM / Tom Cruise Missle Coordinates
As per contract with the French-German Government coalition to acquire military intelligence on "Gold Base," I set up my off-shore Grand Cayman Island bank account for the transfer of payment, and then I set off to earn my diabolical pay.
In company was that woman of mystery, Secret Agent 99, wearing a stunning black leather biker outfit with silver chains and belt buckles, matching tiny Colt .45 pistol ear rings, and standard German Army-issued boots (see catalog page 23). A fierce bird of prey stood at the ready upon her shoulder, least a pink-suited dwarf be spied jogging about in place.
I wore the standard Armani tuxedo with codpiece and dreadlocks, with a silenced Walther PBK reported as "lost in the field" at M5, Southbys, London, tucked into my cummerbund. A white carnation--- my trademark--- was pinned insolently on my broad, beefy, bulging left pectoral.
We looked dashing, dangerous, fun to invite to baby showers and the occasional bat mitzvah.
Having arrived in a custom Saab 484ie 10-cylinder iron-colored all-wheel drive land transport, we swiftly disabled the infrared detectors, the motion detectors, the land mines, the barbed wire, the sixteen motion picture cameras, the six attack dogs, and the assorted RPFer out looking for road kill to eat. "Ha!" said Agent 99, "You said it would take us more than six minutes to penetrate the objective." The way she said the word "penetrate" made my scrotum tighten ever so slightly, but I forced such thoughts aside and focused on the task at hand. LOP = Line of Position, used for bearings more than 30 feet away, and thus could not be approached without "takin' out" the opposition. Where two or more lines of position cross, the bearing is positioned to good accuracy. The more LOPs the better.
"Pad and pen me, cruel, deadly wench!" I said to 99. She slapped a notebook and stylus in my left hand, keeping my gun arm free.
We set to work....... and were soon done. I looked at 99 and saw that, as usual when a mission has been accomplished to success, her eyes were dilated and her face flush; she was panting, her lips a'quiver, and she gave off those tiny little kitten sounds of building ecstasy that you only hear in movies that have no dialog in them.Fake "Church"
33N50.061 Latitude 116W59.305 Longitude
Cult Compound Guard House 33N50.021 116W59.274
Fake Ship 33N49.587 116W59.244
Golf Course Entrance 33N49.480 116W58.571
Hookie Looking "Scottish Castle," Center LOP #1 240 Mag 33N50.248 116W59.508 LOP #2 335 Mag 33N50.148 116W59.418 Plotted Position:
33N50.202 116W59.488
Davie's House, West Balcony LOP #1 000 Mag 33N49.964 116W59.051 LOP #2 060 Mag 33N49.946 116W59.109 LOP #3 030 Mag 33N49.949 116W59.107 Plotted Position:
33N49.942 116W59.087
"Easy, doll," I cautioned her. "We aren't out of the woods... er, I mean weeds... yet."
----
http://desertphile.org
Terrorists do not frighten me. George Bush does!
From: HR-Defense@aol.com (Human Rights Defense (ShyDavid))
Subject: GPS / Second Affidfavit, D Rice
Date: Sat, 17 Aug 2002 06:33:00 GMT
Organization: -NONE-
Message-ID: <3d5dee1c@news2.lightlink.com>
IN THE CIRCUIT COURT FOR THE SIXTH JUDICIAL CIRCUIT IN AND FOR PINELLAS COUNTY, STATE OF FLORIDA GENERAL CIVIL DIVISIONAFFIDAVID OF DAVID M. RICEESTATE OF LISA McPHERSON, by and through the Personal Representative, DELL LIEBREICH, Plaintiff, vs.
"CHURCH" OF SCIENTOLOGY FLAG SERVICE ORGANIZATION, a for-profit commercial enterprise doing business in Pinellas County, JANIS JOHNSON, individual, ALAIN KARTUZINSKI, individual, And DAVID HOUGHTON, DDS, individual, Defendants ) ) ) ) ) ) ) ) ) ) Case No. 00-5682-CI-11 Division 11
It has come to my attention that the sinister commercial enterprise that calls itself "The 'Church' of Scientology" has once again provided to a Court a false statement concerning Mr.
Keith Henson. I must therefore once again set the record straight in this matter.
On the request of several Human Rights activists (communicating via the Internet) who are observing Scientology Inc.'s crimes and human rights abuses, I took GPS readings of Scientology's compound at Gilman Springs. I then posted the results on the Internet, fulfilling that request. GPS readings constitute the geographic latitude and longitude of a location upon Earth.
The commercial enterprise known as "The 'Church' of Scientology"
has repeatedly falsely asserted that Mr. Keith Henson took these "GPS readings." Scientology Inc.'s assertion in this matter is completely false. To my sure, certain, and definitive knowledge, Mr. Keith Henson did not do so. Nor did Mr. Henson cause anyone to take said GPS readings. Nor did Mr. Henson have any awareness before that fact that GPS readings would be taken.
The Scientology business knows Mr. Keith Henson did not take the GPS readings. The Scientology business knows that Mr. Keith Henson had no knowledge or awareness that the GPS readings would be taken. The Scientology business is therefore knowingly falsely asserting a lie.
Signed under penalty of perjury under the laws of California.
Dated this 15th day of July, 2002
DAVID RICE
----
http://desertphile.org
Terrorists do not frighten me. George Bush does!
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