I hate blogs. I don't even understand why I have decided to write this one. But, as it is possible that Stu had some friends out there in "cyberspace" that might have checked in with this site to read his... uhm... amusing turns of phrase, it seems fitting that I compose this.

Stu was an interesting brother. He kept me on my toes. Scratching at my chicken pox and laughing when he came down with them; purposefully playing with rabid animals because he was interested by the idea of mouth foam; climbing radio towers to see the sunset; base jumping. You name the adventure and he did it. He was scared of nothing. Except pickles.

I don't know why there was a pickle on his sandwich. He always requests that they be left off.

He was still cracking jokes in the hospital bed, lying there red and swollen like a berry.

I think deep down he really enjoyed it.

God speed, Stu. God speed.

Posted by StuR at 03:06 PM | Permalink

So I'm watching TV, and the news scroller is crawling across the bottom of the screen. I see "Forest Fire," hear the anchors chattering about the grease fire, and think, "Shit, how does a grease fire take out a forest?" I guess fairs are more dangerous than you think, and not just because of the carnies. One false move and WHOOSH! That delicious funnel cake fryer flips a fatty glob of burning hot oil towards the scorched summer earth and lo! You have set the whole countryside aflame with your lustful need for fried dough covered in a glistening dusting of delicious powdered sugar.

Filthy beast.

The powdered donut of Lucky5 continues to clog arteries wherever it twitches. Some Sharpies at The Outpost have done a number with the code, whittling it down to some digestible chunks and a few well-appointed spreadsheets. To which one of the many IPs will the Goodship Lucky5 port? I suppose it could be like one of those pirate ship rides where the ship, attached to a giant pivot point in the sky, goes back and forth back and forth on and on for what seems an eternity, never stopping, never pausing, and I end up sitting and puking. Man, I hate those. Almost as much as I hate an elephant ear steeped in old grease.

Yo ho hork and a bowel of runs.

I rode this corkscrew swirlie twirlie rollercoaster once. Sat in the back, as everyone knows the lag is nil and the weight of the cars in front of you whips the end around like it's weightless. We were going into the second loop - you could see the front of the car pause at the top of the arc before it fell like a brick towards the ground. You could also see the spit wad hang in the air, waiting for the tail of the snake to slide closer. Our courses were set. Our ships to meet at the same port.

Splotto.

Posted by StuR at 04:38 AM | Permalink

Do you call it "upcycling" if you add a semblance of class to the crap? A university in the UK is taking the opportunity to wire their campus for internet access. Via the sewers. You thought your ISP was crap - this one runs on shit. On purpose. Sliding through the underground, zipping along through the wafting odors of university muck, giving students the opportunity to deliver more crap to their professors. Remember kids: Fiber makes everything move smoother. I wonder if the future of hacking is to wear thigh-high waders and squish through the sewers to tap into the network from below. The sweet smell of evil success takes on a potent tang of wee.

Gotta be careful of the rats down there, though. Big, nasty pointy teeth, they have, dripping rabid with saliva, feening for the taste of fresh man. I heard they've changed the post-bite medical procedures, guaranteed to be better than the giant needle to the abdomen. A summer tan helps that white scar wink at me. Sometimes, when I catch a cold, I drool when I sleep and leave white, crusty, spittle bits at the corners of my mouth. When I was younger, I'd stumble out of bed, crusted and congested, moaning and sore with fever - my mom would totally freak out. That happened a lot, though, mom flipping out. I don't think she was all that prepared for a kid that rejoiced and cheered as the chicken pox spread over his torso like an itchy inquisition. No oven mitts taped to hands for me - I'd grow out my nails for a deeper scratch, red streaks criss-crossing my stomach with each clawed delight. Ah! Every itch felt amazing, transcendent and immortalizing.

I'm itchy just thinking about it.

Scritch scratch, baby.

God, that feels good.

Posted by StuR at 06:25 PM | Permalink

Five hours' New York jet lag, and I wake with my face pressed into my keyboard, the edge of the letter K jabbing into my eyebrow. I've completely thrown off my sleep pattern playing malware hunter - my circadian clock blinks. Power's out, but I'm still at home. Still jacking rhythms on the percussive keyboard. Still hitting the splash cymbal with each crack of a fresh can of Pepsi. I'm fuckin' lighting up this place, a one-man band pulling patterns out of nothing, weaving rugs of magic for carpet rides through atmospheric code. I'm Aladdin, right down to my pointy-toed, blue satiny shoes and gaucho pants. Rub my lamp and see your wishes granted, POOF! Were you busy trying to empirically determine what we know and don't know? Attempting to trick the paranoia radar into picking up my virginal radio signals? Hmm. Interesting. I took a different track: I zipped around the inside loop and zoomed right along the Highway to Missing Things to the end of the road.

What the hell was behind these crazyshit server infections festering on the webhost? Correction: not only this webhost, but another one, too. A lot of the shit left behind looks like stuff hackers use to slip in and out, so I hustled my white ass over to some of my favorite hacker/cracker file swarms. Any of those hacking tools use some of the freaky phrases from our favorite server intrusions? A little Xé:3a? Maybe a touch of Sothoth? he asked, pulling a cigarette out of his pocket.

Zippo. An empty lighter.

Jumping categories, I started hitting cherries with each pull as the little wheels spun. "Cracked software" - my nickel slot with the big payoff. I got a pile of matches, but on really strange file results that made no sense, like audio editing software. Surprise, surprise. Some enterprising Russian cracker had taken to bundling his file uploads with a few tasty pieces of payload, all of which offer CPA programs that are probably reeling in the rubles for the man with the plan. Cha-ching!

Or however they say that in Russia - Krakov-King! or Smirnoff-cha! or something. Vodka!

So in the pile of autoinstalling excitement is some strange Windows traybar application called "Lucky 5." It claims to turn "unused cycles C P U in FIELD LUCKINESS it surrounds you." If you can turn off your pedantry for a few more minutes and click your way through the installation without gouging your eyes out, it produces a traybar app with an L5 icon in blue that apparently does nothing except... sit there. It is parasiteware, though, so it must do something besides attempting to make a love connection to an IP address on start. It doesn't look like it's getting a good pillow fluffing at this point - some more fondling of Lucky is clearly warranted to get it to release its secret load.

In the installation files is a configuration file that looks like a veritable orgy of those phrases I was searching for - Sothoth times ten, naked and running through the fields like a stoned hippie. The Outpost will probably look upon that text with fond familiarity, and any other compromised webservers haunted by files with similar text might also be victims of FIELD LUCKINESS.

Oi! It surrounds you!

I’m uploading the extracted installation file and making it available for download below, but PLEASE BE EXTREMELY CAUTIOUS. This is an Internet-active parasiteware payload that could be connected to compromised servers. Only professional malware investigators (like myself - props to me!) should even CONSIDER installing this on a machine, and then only on a machine with enough security layers to prevent further compromise.

Or don't take my warning and just be stupid and download this willy-nilly onto whatever device you want. I'm cool with that, too, because of the following responsibility clause, cleverly written to cover my ass:

YOU ACCEPT ALL RESPONSIBILITY FOR DOWNLOADING THE MALICIOUS SOFTWARE, "LUCKY 5," BY CLICKING THIS LINK.
FURTHERMORE, YOU ACCEPT THAT STU IS A RIGHTEOUS DUDE*.

* I won't hold you to that last part about my righteousness, 'cause it's a pretty unenforcible clause, but I would like to suggest that you keep it in mind from time to time.

Posted by StuR at 01:56 AM | Permalink

There was a quote in my Senior high school year book that one of my classmates had put in as his last words to the school. Of course, the yearbook staff, filled with idiots crunched for time, managed to reduce the promulgate wisdom to "Speak softly, and carry a big svick." It's always stuck with me as one of those random moments of unintentional hilarity. Wherever I am, I pause once in a while to think about what a big svick I have, and how it's served me so well. Changing with the situation, mutating itself like a viral coat, prepared to latch onto the next villainous membrane. I suck at being a soft speaker, though. Anyone who knows me knows that I'm loud as fuck, and that takes away some of the svicky surprise, but none of the pleasure. Other people seem to have different interpretations of the quote. Which I guess is cool. I mean, people can play with their svicks however they want to. Doesn't change what I do with mine.

I'm not opposed to being svicked by another, really. I almost kind of enjoy it - it's like being able to commiserate with anyone with the latest cold, flu, stomach issue or loose bowel. A shared memory of feeling like utter ass. A moment where you look around and find everyone around you has the same bruises, blisters, and burns. You end up fitting in with everyone else who's currently getting svicked - many become one. Unintentional assimilation and unification against a common, plundering pirate. The svicked crew will land on the shore, band together, and walk into the sunset towards that really nice coconut tree arching over the undergrowth, where they will love and breed and talk to volleyballs named Bill.

Ahoy, there, sailor! Got your svick ready?

Posted by StuR at 05:05 PM | Permalink