Vulgar words in Eastern Standard Tribe (Page 1)
This book at a glance
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If he were a cartoon character, he'd be the pain-in-the-ass poindexter who is all the time dispelling the mysteries that fascinate his buddies.
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"Assholes!" she was hollering.
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Gink-Go: Fuck lawyers.
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I'm on a shitload of dope.
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Linda was short and curvy, dark eyes and pursed lips and an hourglass figure that she thought made her look topheavy and big-assed, but I thought she was fabulous and soft and bouncy.
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You know that the climax is coming soon, that any minute now Our Hero will face down the archvillain and either kick his ass or have his ass kicked, the whole world riding on the outcome.
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You just wish that the little climaces could be taken as read, that the director would trust the audience to know that Our Hero really does wade through an entire ocean of shit en route to the final showdown.
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I've been betrayed, shot at, institutionalized and stranded on the roof of a nuthouse, and I just want the fucking climax to come by and happen to me, so that I can know: smart or happy.
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"Fuck it, Les," the second one said, reaching into his pocket.
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"Les, you stupid cunt!
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Macho fucking horseshit!"
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I just beat off those three assholes without raising a hand, and all you want to do is criticize?
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"You fucking *pig*!
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It's not even slightly funny, you arrogant fucking prick."
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Just because I don't want to joke about rape, you think I'm some kind of *victim*, that *I've* been raped" -- Art grimaced -- "well, I haven't, shithead.
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This business of being an agent-provocateur was complicated in the extreme, though it had sounded like a good idea when he was living in San Francisco and hating every inch of the city, from the alleged pizza to the fucking!
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He'd always felt at a slight angle to reality in California, something that was reinforced by his continuous efforts in the Tribe, from chatting and gaming until the sun rose, dragging his caffeine-deficient ass around to his clients in a kind of fog before going home, catching a nap and hopping back online at 3 or 4 when the high-octane NYC early risers were practicing work-avoidance and clattering around with their comms.
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They obsessively grepped his daily feed of spreadsheets, whiteboard-output, memos and conversation reports for any of ten thousand hot keywords, querying him for deeper detail on trivial, half-remembered bullshit sessions with the V/DT's user experience engineers.
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##Colonelonic laughs Ballgravy: Britain==ass.
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Ballgravy: Queens Trepan: Well, you're not going to believe this, but you're the tenth person from Queens I've met -- and you're all morons who pick fights with strangers in chat-rooms Colonelonic: Queens==ass Trepan: Ass ass ass Ballgravy: Fuck you both ##Ballgravy has left channel #EST.chatter Colonelonic: Nicely done Colonelonic: He's been boring me stupid for the past hour, following me from channel to channel Colonelonic: What are you doing in London, anyway?
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##Colonelonic: (private) No shit?
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I think they've been just keeping us here for shits and giggles.
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I wished futilely for my comm and a nice private channel where I could sling some bullshit and have some slung in my direction, just connect with another human being at a nice, safe remove.
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Art's ass aches and he paces the flat's three wee rooms and drinks hormone-enhanced high-energy liquid breakfast from the half-fridge in the efficiency kitchen.
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You can teach that, damn, you can teach that, I know you can.
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"Look, I don't want to piss you off.
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The fratboys all gathered around and gave me advice, and I played up all bitchy, you know, 'I've been fixing these things since I was ten, get lost,' whatever.
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Only I was starting to freak out about the car -- it was really dead.
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I couldn't stop gagging, couldn't stop crying, but by now I was getting pissed.
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"He turned around again, looked at me for a long time, and I was sure he was going to check, that it was all going to be fine, but then he said, 'Look, I've had about as much of your bullshit as I'm going to take, little girl.
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A couple of biowar enthusiasts in there right now, caught 'em trying to thrax a bus terminal; a girl who killed her pimp and nailed his privates to the door of his hotel room before she took off; a couple of hard old drunks.
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Art says, just as Linda says, "Shit!" and they both snort a laugh.
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"So fucking *what*, Fede?
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"I don't give a shit, Art.
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Every day that you're away and I'm covering for your ass, he gets more and more certain.
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If you keep this shit up, we're both dead."
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"Hey, fuck you, Fede."
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"Same shit," Art said.
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People are going to crash their cars fucking around with the 'I Agree' buttons.
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So I'm coopering up all these user studies with weasels from the legal departments at the studios, where they just slaver all over this stuff, talking about how warm it all makes them feel to make sure that they're compensating artists and how grateful they are for the reminders to keep their software up to date and shit.
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It's going to be perfect: the rights-societies are going to love it, and I've handpicked the peer review group at V/DT, stacked it up with total assholes who love manuals and following rules.
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These guys, they hate the end user, and for years they've been getting away with it because all their users are already used to being treated like shit at the post office and the tube station.
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Feed 'em shit and they'll ask you for second helpings.
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He'd assumed that the terminal's UI was such that a computer-illiterate busgirl couldn't reliably key in the data without having it in front of her, and for months he'd cited it in net-bullshit sessions as more evidence of the pervasive user-hostility that characterized the whole damned GMT.
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He got halfway up Picadilly before looking over his shoulder, and he saw Fede shouldering his way through the lunchtime crowd, looking pissed.
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They won't do shit.
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"He's a fucking psycho, Fede.
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It surprised the hell out of me when I discovered Fede's treachery and Linda's complicity and found myself flying cattle class to London to kick Fede's ass.
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Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my fucking hotel room?"
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You can hop into these discussions, play the games, chord with one hand while chatting up some hottie a couple thousand miles away.
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The cut is too fresh to hurt, but it's bleeding freely and I know it'll sting like a bastard soon enough.
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They worked beside each other and each hardly knew the other was there, and that, Art thought, when he thought of it, when the receptionist commed him to tell him that "Linderrr" -- freakin' teabags -- was there for him, that was the defining characteristic of a Tribalist.
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"I'm not wearing any knickers," she continued, loud enough that he was sure that the receptionist heard.
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"Someone you have to meet," he said, reaching down to rearrange his pants to hide his boner.
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I don't give a shit if you meet Fede or not."
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"Shut the fuck up, will you?"
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You're going to go off and be a fucking idiot and cripple yourself.
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Art, you make it all sound so reasonable, and you can dress it up with whatever words you want, but at the end of the day, we both know you're full of shit on this.
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"They don't have fucking *hot tubs* in Virgin Upper, do they?"
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It comes to me that I am quite a fucking sight.
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Linda's goddamned boyfriend was into all this flaky Getting to Yes shit, subliminal means of establishing rapport and so on.
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It works -- it's flaky and goofy California shit, but it works.
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Art heard water running dimly, realized that Fede was taking a leak.
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"Don't be pissed at me, Art."
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"I'm not pissed.
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Don't *ever* fucking cut me off!"
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Fede had repeatedly talked him out of going to Perceptronics's offices, offering increasingly flimsy excuses and distracting him by calling the hotel's front desk and sending up surprise massage therapists to interrupt Art as he stewed in his juices, throbbing with resentment at having been flown thousands of klicks while injured in order to check into a faceless hotel on a faceless stretch of highway and insert this thumb into his asshole and wait for Fede -- *who was still in fucking London!
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"Jesus, Federico, what the fuck am I *doing* here?"
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I want to get this shit done and I want to come home and see my girlfriend."
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He crept up on her, smelling her new-car hair products on the breeze that wafted back from her, and was about to begin his tonguing when she barked, "Fuck *off*!
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That was my fucking ex," she said.
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'My fucking ex.'
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My fucking, pain-in-the-ass, touchy-feely ex.