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In This Issue

• Fat Virgin Screws Microsoft
• Fed Talks with Corporate Stooge
• Letters to the Feditor!
• Dirty Terrorists Go Too Far: Now It's Personal
• LilAmber.com: Legal Child Porn for the Masses
• Fed Fun Guide: How Not To Make A Bomb
• Shivering Shit Machines Progeny of Actress Ricci
• The SHIT
• Bollinger: Mixing Business with Leather
• Lashed & Leashed at CV
• 14 Year Olds Do It Best!
• Remember Sept 27th
• Girl of Petite Race Likes Small Place
• The Staff of 19.1

As a thin person with a vagina, I find it hard to imagine the humiliating level of sexual frustration that would go along with being too fat to find your own dick. However, if I did have a penis--and frankly I’ve always thought it by far the most frolicsome and adorable of all sexual organs--I’d be pretty goddamn angry if it up and went MIA in my fat rolls. Especially if, like Jeffrey Lee Parsons, I was the size of a small taco stand and facially resembled a wet llama. Thus, I sympathize with Parsons, the 320 pound boy ogre recently arrested for his alleged creation of the "Blaster- B" variant to the Blaster internet worm that infected more than 500,000 computers in early September. Though Parsons has not made any definitive statement regarding his guilt, his possible reasons for committing the crime seem, to this casual student of psychology, splayed prominently across the vast, flabby expanse of his blank and unsightly forehead. Obviously, the only thing big enough for him to fuck without fatally crushing was the Microsoft Corporation.

No, the perplexing issue inherent in Parsons’ deed is not the motivation for his crime but the manner in which it manifested. The original Blaster virus was, colloquially speaking, a pussy- an annoyance, namby-pambily slowing down computers, limp-wristedly causing the occasional crash, dabbling in metaphysics, passing out Howard Dean stickers but NOT deleting files, NOT destroying memory and NOT doing lasting damage. Young Mr. Parsons’ Blaster-B, then, was naught but a variation on an already insipid theme: all lame virus, no originality. Unlike the comparatively edgier creator of the original Blaster worm, however, Parsons did not even manage to James Bond his way out of detection or prosecution; he instead took the "Please, please arrest me!" route, programming his copycat worm to direct all infected computers to a website registered under his father’s name. Thus, rather than actually fucking said computers, Parsons did right by his Middle American roots: he got them drunk enough on Coors Light to hook up with him, and then made them sign his website. Unpleasant? Yes. Dweeby? Certainly. But hardcore? Possibly less so than a Hilary Duff album.

What are the larger implications within The Lackluster Story of Jeffrey Lee Parsons? Is his saga that of the savvy, disenfranchised youth overcoming adversity to gain sly vengeance against The Man and Corporate Malfeasance, or that of a pork-rind-popping-bacon-loving-greasy-haired fat virgin maliciously projecting his sexual frustration upon the unsuspecting computers of his moral and aesthetic superiors? What does it say about American culture that a kid who can’t get laid (or easily walk through most single-entry doors) should be alienated to a point where so desperate is he to blatantly "cry for help" that he bypasses the half-hearted suicide attempt in favor of half-assedly reconfiguring someone else’s irritating-but-not-crippling computer worm? Who, it begs to be asked, is responsible for this?

I’d tell you, but that kind of investigative reporting would necessitate my actually calling Mr. Parsons, and I would hate for him to get the wrong impression. We can tell ourselves that Marilyn Manson is responsible, or perhaps Krispy Kreme, but I think the real answer lies along the cruel plains that compose the social landscape of this nation’s Jesus-loving, cornfed Heartland. Had the boy been raised right, or perhaps simply raised on a diet befitting a child rather than a mid-sized African nation, his tale could have been that of penetrating easy, busty cheerleaders with blond ponytails and hearts full of love, rather than of penetrating the tight and unforgiving woman parts of the world wide web- only to wind up in prison, getting penetrated by inmates- and still fat.

In all fairness, Parsons’ act was probably motivated by response to inherent social cruelties and aesthetic prejudices- but who gives a fuck? Being an eye-sore seemingly composed entirely of lipids is certainly not a crime- but having your dirty fat way with 7000 computers is. We can either shed a single, salty tear for a boy no one loved, or we can take our computers to ACIS and then run off for a whirlwind of sex and coke with our attractive and popular friends. Either way , while we’re out partying, Parsons will be receiving a taste of the international technological irritation he caused, in a far more localized setting: up his fat sphincter.