psychoceramics: Grubor sighting

["Andrew C. Bul+hac?k" <acb @ cs.monash.nospam>]

Some here will have seen this already.

(For those not in the know, Grubor is a kook known for the gigantic
volume of aggressive, psychotic ravings he posts to USENET newsgroups,
and has done so since 1995 or so.)

 -- acb

[http://www.netscum.org/eyeballed.html]
> Subject:      Grubor eyeballed - the gory details!
> From:         Tom Pendergast
> Date:         1997/01/04
> Message-Id:   <32CF4CC4.7C--@3--.com>
> Newsgroups:   pgh.opinion
> 
> I'm at the cattle-drive-computer-show-and-sale at the Expo Mart, and
> I'm standing there trying to buy a book from this one overworked (but
> probably rich) guy that's trying to wait on about 15 people, with
> 7 or 8 on each side of this corner table location.
> 
> He's got this little combo cel-phone / terinal there for processing
> credit cards, and a couple of little signs that he's adding a 3%
> surcharge for CC purchases.  The guy is really doing the diplomatic
> shuffle, trying to wait on all of these people, when all of a sudden,
> the next guy up at bat is the customer from hell.
> 
> About 5' 9", 5' 10", 160 - 170 LBS, maybe 45-50, denim pants suit
> complete with the soft canvas loafer earth shoe effect at the bottom.
> Dark with gray hair, over the ears, dissheveled, and lots of it!
> Big and thick pop-bottle glasses, straining under the weight of a
> pair of eyebrows that were -- as God is my witness -- about 2 inches
> thick and started out over by the side hairline and kinda merged in
> the middle somewhere!  Really ... -scary- looking dude, ya know?  Not
> in the "man, let me away from him" kinda way, but more like the "wow,
> where's the cage that -that- came from!?" way, you know?
> 
> (Ed. note:  Somewhere in his canibas-crusade rants, Grubor tells of
> being on Dilantin for long periods of time, and having been there
> myself for a few months, many moons ago, I can attest that Dilantin
> [a steroid] is hell on the hair-producing hormones.  I did 3 months
> on the stuff after a cracked skull from a bar fight, and, uhhh, let's
> not ask about what happened to the -other- guy, OK?. I digress ...)
> 
> I guess it's not nice to make fun of people with a medical condition,
> but if said people want treated like human beings, they should have
> dropped the "fucks little boys" nonsense long ago, right Groobs?!
> So, uhhhh, too bad.  I laugh heartily at your sickness, and only
> regret that it isn't anything that will lead to your premature demise.
> 
> OK, so where was I???  Oh yeah ...
> 
> Superbookseller reminds wolfman that there will be a markup for use
> of the credit card, and wolfie argues that it's also a debit card and
> he's not using it as a credit card.  Bookseller 'splains to woofie
> that it don't matter, he still has to call in and verify it (points
> to his little phone-terminal gizmo for clarification) so he adds the
> surcharge.  Policy, you know?
> 
> So, Ol' burned out hippy with them funny wings out front there
> proceeds to say "OK, I'll pay cash then" and starts rummaging for
> some greenbacks.
> 
> Bookseller says "fine, with the tax, that comes to twe-" and our
> sad friend pops up with "Uh, I'm tax exempt, I have a tax number..."
> all over the tax on twenty bucks (I guess all of those 'net accounts
> -are- pretty expensive, huh?) and the guy behind the counter is just
> about to crack, and I, by this time -really- feel like sticking my
> thumb and forefinger up to the back of Wolfgang's head and giving
> him a good sharp ping on the skull, as in "come on pal, give it up,
> huh!" but I show my usual restraint.
> 
> Salesguy (always the thinker) sees Groobs's dog-eared el-cheapo rolled
> and curled fax copy of his tax-exempt certificate and says "you have a
> copy to leave with me, right?" and ape man sputters for a second and
> says "no, but I'll leave you a business card and you can write the
> number on it..."
> 
> So,  this time, bookman -knows- that there is now way in hell that
> he's getting the extra buck-forty out of Cheeta, so he says, "fine,
> Fine, patience folks, I'll be with you all in a minute..." and Dr.
> Burnout pulls out a generic business card that has one very distinct
> feture -- the words "Dr. G. Enterprises" or "Dr. G. Incorporated" in
> real big letters right in the middle of the card!  The next few
> seconds are really hard to describe, 'cause it caught my eye, and the
> brain started to spin about 100 miles an hour, and I used my super-
> duper hawkeye vision to scope out the rest of the card, and all I can
> swear to seeing was a PO Box in East McKeesport mailing address.
> 
> It was him.
> 
> There was no confrontation, no violence, no event to report, which
> is probably a dissapointment to some.  But let's just say that
> sometime around noon on the 4th of January in the year of our Lord
> nineteen-Hundred and Ninety-Seven, the rules -- as we know
> them -- have changed.
> 
> I know what he -looks- like.
> 
> I know what he -sounds- like.
> 
> And, due to my rotten luck in being a bit downwind of him in line,
> I even know what he -smells- like!
> 
> And that's about all I have to say about it.