Norm Nowrecki had been sitting at his desk for six months, waiting for
the latest James Krenov book to be published that would give meaning
and purpose to his life, when his cell phone peeped out a tinny
version of the NYW theme, signaling an incoming call. This came as
quite a shock to Norm, as he had not paid his cell phone bill for
three months, having spent all his money on a particularly attractive
investment in Jatoba, well it wasn't - look, we'll come back to that.

Norm peeled the much duct taped Motorola from his belt, banged it
reflexively on the desktop and spoke,

"Norm Nowrecki, Troll Tracker."

The line was full of weird clicks and unintelligible disembodied
voices, added to the electronic howling of distant modem handshakes,
it seemed as though dozens of crossed lines were feeding into his
ancient Motorola. A wheezing sepulcharal presence spoke above the
racket,

"SMEGMA."

The line went dead.

Horrified, Norm punched in *69.

Nothing, nada, zippo. The unfunded Motorola was mute.

Could it be true? Was his old nemesis again up to its vile tricks?

SMEGMA (Silly Morons Engaged in Generating Malicious Assaults) was
thought to have been disbanded after Norm's last attack on their
headquarters, where Norm had captured their leader (Fetus Fudgepacker)
and subjected him to his patented Mobius Looped PowerPoint
Presentation of Hoadley's, Identifying Wood, with a background track
of a MIDI version of TOH bumper music. Norm thought of it as, "The
Cure."

"Fudgepacker must have escaped"

Breathed Norm to the fetid, uncomprehending air of his office.

Norm looked at the frosted glass of his office door and read the
inscription, "rekcarT llorT - ikcerwoN mroN", which made him chortle
as he thought of Firesign Theatre, which made him guffaw as he...

"Get a grip. You've got a case."

It's probably time to deal with the Jatoba Incident.

Norm had two passions, computers and wooddorking. He'd found his
calling in the marriage of the two during the great Crossposting
Doggie Doo Troll War, in which he had succeeded in neutering the
Doggies and in cancel ling all of the accounts that the Trolls had
posted from. He'd been well compensated for his efforts by grateful
members of the afflicted groups and his lifestyle had blossomed to the
point where he could afford a girlfriend, every other Friday night,
for about a half an hour. Life was good.

Then he'd had that tremendous success in bringing Fetus Fudgepacker to
bay, actually to Ebay, where Norm dangled the indescribable carrot
that became the ineluctable trap. Norm had offered for auction the
unmunged email addresses of those on the group that Fudgepacker
considered to be his particular prey. Norm was able to increase his
time with his intermittent girlfriend to forty five minutes, based on
the resolution of that case. Life was better than good.

One night shortly after, while Norm was wandering the docks in an
attempt to catch the scent of the forbidden South American Hardwoods,
that he knew to be nestled in the shipping containers of certain flag
of convenience vessels, he came upon a small man wearing a large coat.

"Brazilian Cherry, Honduran Mahogany, Jatoba.", hawked the
little man in the large coat.

"Did you say, Jatoba?", growled Norm, backing the little man
against a dock post.

The little man was flapping his coat open and closed, like a fishing
bird drying his feathers, like a rooster greeting the dawn, like
a...well, he mostly looked like a somewhat hesitant flasher.

"What's this about Jatoba?", barked Norm to the little
flashing man.

"Check it out.", smarmed the little flashing man, as he opened
his coat to reveal a collection of wood samples, sewn into his coat
lining, that would have held, in a more sober culture, a transient's
display of offshore Rolex knockoffs.

"Jatoba, in the bole, kiln dried, all FAS."

Norm's head was spinning.

"How much?"

"A dollar two ninety eight a board foot."

Norm broke out in a sweat, knowing that he had only enough money to
pay for his cell phone and the 56K line that fed his business. He
lifted the little flashing man four inches off of the ground and,
breathing the remains of his sardine poor boy sandwich into the little
flashing man's face, said,

"I want all of it."

That transaction had sealed Norm's fate. He lost his access to his
intermittent girlfriend. His Motorola was numbed into silence. He
was able to keep up his troll tracking business only by tapping into
the phone line of the office next door to his. He'd hit bottom. Norm
was a wood junky.

The heavy breather who'd pronounced the word, "SMEGMA" into his
heretofore dead Motorola, held out the only promise of redemption. He
was on the case.

In his excitement and in the anticipaaaaation of the hunt, Norm had a
double epiphany - it was Fudgepacker - it was always Fudgepacker - the
voice on the phone - the little flashing man...

"Aaarrrrgggghhhhhh."

Norm fired up his trusty 133mhz beige nonamebox, engaged his balky
winmodem...

The chase was on.



(to be continued)



Regards, Tom
Thomas J. Watson-Cabinetmaker
Gulph Mills, Pennsylvania
http://users.snip.net/~tjwatson

It just doesn't get any better than this....... Can't wait for the next
chapter...

Bob S.

In article ,
Tom Watson wrote:

SMEGMA (Silly Morons Engaged in Generating Malicious Assaults

perfection



--
Owen Lowe and his Fly-by-Night Copper Company
Offering a shim for the Porter-Cable 557 type 2 fence design.
http://www.flybynightcoppercompany.com
http://www.easystreet.com/~onlnlowe/index.html

Who is he *talking* to? And how does he make his voice *DO* that?

Yeah but you never post follow ups


--
Young Carpenter

"Violin playing and Woodworking are similar, it takes plenty of money,
plenty of practice, and you usually make way more noise than intended"

{Put the fiddler back "on" the roof to reply}
"Tom Watson" wrote in message
...
Norm Nowrecki had been sitting at his desk for six months, waiting for
the latest James Krenov book to be published that would give meaning
and purpose to his life, when his cell phone peeped out a tinny
version of the NYW theme, signaling an incoming call. This came as
quite a shock to Norm, as he had not paid his cell phone bill for
three months, having spent all his money on a particularly attractive
investment in Jatoba, well it wasn't - look, we'll come back to that.

Norm peeled the much duct taped Motorola from his belt, banged it
reflexively on the desktop and spoke,

"Norm Nowrecki, Troll Tracker."

The line was full of weird clicks and unintelligible disembodied
voices, added to the electronic howling of distant modem handshakes,
it seemed as though dozens of crossed lines were feeding into his
ancient Motorola. A wheezing sepulcharal presence spoke above the
racket,

"SMEGMA."

The line went dead.

Horrified, Norm punched in *69.

Nothing, nada, zippo. The unfunded Motorola was mute.

Could it be true? Was his old nemesis again up to its vile tricks?

SMEGMA (Silly Morons Engaged in Generating Malicious Assaults) was
thought to have been disbanded after Norm's last attack on their
headquarters, where Norm had captured their leader (Fetus Fudgepacker)
and subjected him to his patented Mobius Looped PowerPoint
Presentation of Hoadley's, Identifying Wood, with a background track
of a MIDI version of TOH bumper music. Norm thought of it as, "The
Cure."

"Fudgepacker must have escaped"

Breathed Norm to the fetid, uncomprehending air of his office.

Norm looked at the frosted glass of his office door and read the
inscription, "rekcarT llorT - ikcerwoN mroN", which made him chortle
as he thought of Firesign Theatre, which made him guffaw as he...

"Get a grip. You've got a case."

It's probably time to deal with the Jatoba Incident.

Norm had two passions, computers and wooddorking. He'd found his
calling in the marriage of the two during the great Crossposting
Doggie Doo Troll War, in which he had succeeded in neutering the
Doggies and in cancel ling all of the accounts that the Trolls had
posted from. He'd been well compensated for his efforts by grateful
members of the afflicted groups and his lifestyle had blossomed to the
point where he could afford a girlfriend, every other Friday night,
for about a half an hour. Life was good.

Then he'd had that tremendous success in bringing Fetus Fudgepacker to
bay, actually to Ebay, where Norm dangled the indescribable carrot
that became the ineluctable trap. Norm had offered for auction the
unmunged email addresses of those on the group that Fudgepacker
considered to be his particular prey. Norm was able to increase his
time with his intermittent girlfriend to forty five minutes, based on
the resolution of that case. Life was better than good.

One night shortly after, while Norm was wandering the docks in an
attempt to catch the scent of the forbidden South American Hardwoods,
that he knew to be nestled in the shipping containers of certain flag
of convenience vessels, he came upon a small man wearing a large coat.

"Brazilian Cherry, Honduran Mahogany, Jatoba.", hawked the
little man in the large coat.

"Did you say, Jatoba?", growled Norm, backing the little man
against a dock post.

The little man was flapping his coat open and closed, like a fishing
bird drying his feathers, like a rooster greeting the dawn, like
a...well, he mostly looked like a somewhat hesitant flasher.

"What's this about Jatoba?", barked Norm to the little
flashing man.

"Check it out.", smarmed the little flashing man, as he opened
his coat to reveal a collection of wood samples, sewn into his coat
lining, that would have held, in a more sober culture, a transient's
display of offshore Rolex knockoffs.

"Jatoba, in the bole, kiln dried, all FAS."

Norm's head was spinning.

"How much?"

"A dollar two ninety eight a board foot."

Norm broke out in a sweat, knowing that he had only enough money to
pay for his cell phone and the 56K line that fed his business. He
lifted the little flashing man four inches off of the ground and,
breathing the remains of his sardine poor boy sandwich into the little
flashing man's face, said,

"I want all of it."

That transaction had sealed Norm's fate. He lost his access to his
intermittent girlfriend. His Motorola was numbed into silence. He
was able to keep up his troll tracking business only by tapping into
the phone line of the office next door to his. He'd hit bottom. Norm
was a wood junky.

The heavy breather who'd pronounced the word, "SMEGMA" into his
heretofore dead Motorola, held out the only promise of redemption. He
was on the case.

In his excitement and in the anticipaaaaation of the hunt, Norm had a
double epiphany - it was Fudgepacker - it was always Fudgepacker - the
voice on the phone - the little flashing man...

"Aaarrrrgggghhhhhh."

Norm fired up his trusty 133mhz beige nonamebox, engaged his balky
winmodem...

The chase was on.



(to be continued)



Regards, Tom
Thomas J. Watson-Cabinetmaker
Gulph Mills, Pennsylvania
http://users.snip.net/~tjwatson




-----= Posted via Newsfeeds.Com, Uncensored Usenet News =-----
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On Thu, 09 Oct 2003 02:27:47 GMT, Dave Balderstone
Crawled out of the shop and said. . .:

Who is he *talking* to? And how does he make his voice *DO* that?

he's a professional son,,,dont try this at home

Traves

On Wed, 08 Oct 2003 16:48:35 -0400, Tom Watson
pixelated:

Norm Nowrecki had been sitting at his desk for six months, waiting for

Careful where you point that pickle, Danger.

In article , Larry Jaques
wrote:

Careful where you point that pickle, Danger.

That's nothing but a two-bit ring from a Crackerback Jocks!

ahh, Hemlock Stones!
Subject: Norm Nowrecki - Troll Tracker



I
Careful where you point that pickle, Danger.

That's nothing but a two-bit ring from a Crackerback Jocks!

Someday, it'll all be over....

I'd like a pizza to go, no anchovies.
--
To e-mail, replace "bucketofspam" with "dleegordon"

On Wed, 8 Oct 2003 22:50:46 -0400, "Young Carpenter"
wrote:

Yeah but you never post follow ups

I do if enough people show interest.

If not, I let it die.

Looks like this one is gonna die.


Regards, Tom
Thomas J. Watson-Cabinetmaker
Gulph Mills, Pennsylvania
http://users.snip.net/~tjwatson

In article , Tom
wrote:

ahh, Hemlock Stones!

Anchovies? I spell my name Danger!

On 09 Oct 2003, Tom spake unto rec.woodworking:

ahh, Hemlock Stones!


Careful where you point that pickle, Danger.

That's nothing but a two-bit ring from a Crackerback Jocks!

.... and there's hamburger all over the highway in sectors R and M.

how much interest do you need?

I didn't know we had to actually vocalize our support.

Go Tom, Go Tom, Hoo-RAH for Tom.

Ok, more please.

--

There are no stupid questions.
There are a LOT of inquisitive idiots.


"Tom Watson" wrote in message
...
On Wed, 8 Oct 2003 22:50:46 -0400, "Young Carpenter"
wrote:

Yeah but you never post follow ups

I do if enough people show interest.

If not, I let it die.

Looks like this one is gonna die.


Regards, Tom
Thomas J. Watson-Cabinetmaker
Gulph Mills, Pennsylvania
http://users.snip.net/~tjwatson

On Thu, 09 Oct 2003 02:27:47 GMT, Dave Balderstone
pixelated:

Who is he *talking* to? And how does he make his voice *DO* that?

Oh, you must mean Nancy. She's in the aviary studying trees.

Don't crush that dwarf!!

--
www.e-woodshop.net
Last update: 9/21/03

"Scott Cramer" wrote in message
On 09 Oct 2003, Tom spake unto rec.woodworking:

ahh, Hemlock Stones!


Careful where you point that pickle, Danger.

That's nothing but a two-bit ring from a Crackerback Jocks!

... and there's hamburger all over the highway in sectors R and M.

"Tom Watson" wrote in message
...

(to be continued)

Ok - I'm in. You've got me for the next chapter!

Tom Watson wrote in message . ..
On Wed, 8 Oct 2003 22:50:46 -0400, "Young Carpenter"
wrote:

Yeah but you never post follow ups

I do if enough people show interest.

If not, I let it die.

Looks like this one is gonna die.


Priceless! Please, one more chapter.

-Chris

Swingman wrote:

Don't crush that dwarf!!

please make the flashbacks stop! There are only fragments of memorys of
the 70s left and I would like to keep it that way. I don't need to
remember everything I did then... although the statute of limitations
has run out on most of them. :-)


BRuce

My life was hollow and empty until I read this.

Of course, it's still hollow and empty now, but I believe another chapter
(or two?) would change everything. Everything!

My BT3100 would morph into a Unisaw.
My HF biscuit get-pretty-close-er would transmogrify into a Lamello.
My gar^H^H^H shop would increase in size by 1600 square feet.
My pile of moderately checked ash would become mahogany. Ahem.

It's all in your hands, Señor Watson.


On Wed, 08 Oct 2003 16:48:35 -0400, Tom Watson began another eTome:

Norm Nowrecki had been sitting at his desk for six months...

In article ,
Tom Watson wrote:

Looks like this one is gonna die.

Gee, I didn't realize I had to toss a comment your way when you posted
the literary works to encourage second installments - is that in the
rules of engagement book? I've been waiting for Sherlock Holmes, part
two for weeks now...

--
Owen Lowe and his Fly-by-Night Copper Company
Offering a shim for the Porter-Cable 557 type 2 fence design.
http://www.flybynightcoppercompany.com
http://www.easystreet.com/~onlnlowe/index.html

Tom Watson crushed our hopes with:
I do if enough people show interest.
If not, I let it die.
Looks like this one is gonna die.

What do we haveta do to show interest? Hell you could probly write ads
and we'd love 'em. I'm waiting for the next chapter, along with about a
hundred other wRECkers.
Dave in Fairfax
--
reply-to doesn't work
use:
daveldr at att dot net

On Thu, 09 Oct 2003 15:35:55 GMT, "mttt"
pixelated:


"Tom Watson" wrote in message
.. .

(to be continued)

Ok - I'm in. You've got me for the next chapter!

Count me in, too, Tawm.

On Thu, 09 Oct 2003 15:45:51 -0700, Fly-by-Night CC
pixelated:

In article ,
Tom Watson wrote:

Looks like this one is gonna die.

Gee, I didn't realize I had to toss a comment your way when you posted
the literary works to encourage second installments - is that in the
rules of engagement book? I've been waiting for Sherlock Holmes, part
two for weeks now...

Ditto me on this one, too, Tawm. Anything to stop you
from spending any more time on p o e t r y ...
bseg

Travis McGee move over.

Garrison Keeler, hire this guy to write
Guy Noir scripts.

Ian Fleming, eat your heart out.

Mr. Doyle, relax - at least for a little while.

charlie b

ps - Holmes story? More please.

On Thu, 09 Oct 2003 13:48:08 GMT, "Mike in Mystic"
wrote:

how much interest do you need?

I didn't know we had to actually vocalize our support.

I figure that people might be tired of my bull**** and are,
uncharacteristically, too polite to say so.

Go Tom, Go Tom, Hoo-RAH for Tom.

Don't do that, it wrinkles my workshirt.

Ok, more please.

That's better, although I'm more used to threats (cf Sheherazade)





Regards, Tom
Thomas J. Watson-Cabinetmaker
Gulph Mills, Pennsylvania
http://users.snip.net/~tjwatson

In article , Tom Watson
wrote:

I figure that people might be tired of my bull**** and are,
uncharacteristically, too polite to say so.

Around here? Too polite?

LOL!

djb

--
There are no socks in my email address.

"Quando Omni Flunkus Moritati"