ludwigm wrote:That sockpuppets (my doppelgangers) have never exceeded Your picture limits, by the way.
But the human being in control of them did. That's what matters.
I understand. What is count, the person who said it --- not what did he say. Or not said.
Fair game...
- Whenever a poet or preacher, chief or wizard spouts gibberish, the human race spends centuries deciphering the message. - Umberto Eco - To assert that the earth revolves around the sun is as erroneous as to claim that Jesus was not born of a virgin. - Cardinal Bellarmine at the trial of Galilei
- Whenever a poet or preacher, chief or wizard spouts gibberish, the human race spends centuries deciphering the message. - Umberto Eco - To assert that the earth revolves around the sun is as erroneous as to claim that Jesus was not born of a virgin. - Cardinal Bellarmine at the trial of Galilei
ludwigm wrote:I understand. What is count, the person who said it --- not what did he say. Or not said.
No, what counts is what the human being said. The human being accepts the consequences; what sock puppet he or she used doesn't matter.
Fair game...
Yes, very fair game.
"Finally, for your rather strange idea that miracles are somehow linked to the amount of gay sexual gratification that is taking place would require that primitive Christianity was launched by gay sex, would it not?"
American Heritage Dictionary of Idioms: fair game Home > Library > Literature & Language > Idioms A legitimate target for attack or ridicule. For example, On his talk show, authors are considered fair game. This expression alludes to hunting.
- Whenever a poet or preacher, chief or wizard spouts gibberish, the human race spends centuries deciphering the message. - Umberto Eco - To assert that the earth revolves around the sun is as erroneous as to claim that Jesus was not born of a virgin. - Cardinal Bellarmine at the trial of Galilei
The moment Franklynn walked into the conference room, he felt strange. Sitting there at the head of the table was Elder Hyrum Z. Sutcliffe: at 67 years old, a junior member of the Quorum of 12 Apostles, and he had a close-cropped, military-style haircut. In his conference talks, he often spoke about the "challenges of the gospel," and said he feared that the Saints were becoming lazy and complacent. "We must remember that our life on this earth is a test," he said in his most recent General Conference talk. "And as with any rigorous test, only a few will get 'A's. Many more will get 'B's. And then there will be those who will get 'C's, 'D's, and 'F's. I warn you now, my dear brothers and sisters: Outer Darkness is a very real place, and those who today are succumbing to the worldly temptations of sexuality, the so-called 'Internet,' uncontrolled hedonism, and other things that undermine our eternal families, will pay a heavy price in the end." In his secular career, Elder Sutcliffe had worked in education, and in CES, and had earned his EdD from the University of Utah. Frank had once overheard Merlyn Young saying that EdD were not "real doctorates," though no one dared say such a thing in Sutcliffe's presence.
Everyone took a seat and Howell spoke: "Well, everyone. Shall we begin?"
"Pardon me, Brother Lambeth," said Sutcliffe, leaning forward. "But you are out of turn. I doubt I need to remind you of your place, and of who it is that's presiding over this meeting."
Howell opened his mouth to respond but decided better of it and leaned back in his chair.
Elder Sutcliffe looked at each of the men sitting around the long conference table. "Dr. Jenkins. Please offer us an opening prayer."
"Absolutely, Elder Sutcliffe." They all folded their arms and bowed their heads as Jenkins prayed. "We're grateful, oh Father in Heaver, for the guidance ye have brought to us today in the form of thine apostle," he said at one point. When he was finished, everyone said, "Amen!"
Attention turned to the apostle, who sat stone-faced, glaring off at nothing in particular, his large-knuckled hands resting heavily on the table. After a few moments, it was clear that he was breathing more heavily and his nostrils were flaring. He lifted one of his hands and balled it into a fist and brought it down several times on the table. He was quaking with anger:
"Dammit, now! Dammit to heck!" He sat there seething, looking back and forth at the Hinton Institute men, who either looked away or down, or glanced guiltily at one another. Sutcliffe had turned red, and he was shaking his head in frustration. "What is this Institute for?" he asked. "All of you, each and every one of you, has let the Brethren down. You've let our Lord and Savior down. What would Elder Hinton, if he were alive today, think about what's been going on? Just look at this. Jimmy, where is that thing?"
Sutcliffe's young assistant stepped forward and laid a folder down on the table. Inside was a copy of the symposium program. Sutcliffe rapped his finger on it: "This...this.... What is this, I ask you? Why was this allowed to happen? Just let me read some of the titles to you." He fished in his pocket for his reading glasses and then he cleared his throat. "'Ahistoricism in the Book of Mormon.' So the Prophet Joseph just made it up, I take it? Or this one: 'Queer Identity and Longing in the Book of Ether.' 'Mormon Feminisms: Heavenly Mother and the Shifting Nature of the Priesthood.' Fem-inisms," he snarled, and a fleck of saliva escaped his mouth and clung to the corner of his lower lip. He looked up and down the table again. "Now I suppose some of the blame is to be placed on Elder Stolz, for even organizing this charade in the first place. But what about all of you, who are actually working here, at the Lord's University? This is blatant, blantant refutation of the Brethren's council!" He paused for several moments, collecting his thoughts.
At the other end of the table, Howell raised his hand: "Elder Sutcliffe, if I may say something: we did work hard to ensure that these presentations were met with the appropriate counter-arguments."
"I don't believe I granted you permission to speak, Howell. Now shut up. Don't open that yap of yours until you're asked to. Is that clear?"
Blushing, Howell looked angrily away and nodded his head.
"I shudder to think at what has been going on behind the scenes here. What is going on in your personal lives such that this weakness would creep into the Institute?"
His eyes fell on Franklynn, who had been trying as hard as possible to go unnoticed.
"Have you men been betraying the covenants you made to the Lord? Looking at pern-og-raphy perhaps?" He was smirking slightly.
No one else was, though, and Franklynn had begun to sweat.
"Don't think that you can get away with this lax behavior, brothers. The Brethren knew exactly how you've been failing." He paused again and straightened up in his chair. When he spoke again, his voice was softer: "But I'm also here to tell you that you are to be given a second chance."
As he said this, it was as if the entire group at the table breathed a collective sigh of relief.
"No one is going to have their temple recommend taken away. No one is going to be called into a court of love. Not yet, anyway." He raised his finger: "But don't think that these options weren't considered, because they absolutely were. If the men in this room continue to allow these sorts of abominations to unfurl even here, on our home turf, then I can tell you that there will be eternal consequences for each of you. Each and every one of you."
On the left-hand side of the table, Nephi Clark had raised his hand. Elder Sutcliffe called on him: "Yes, Brother Clark."
"What are we to do, Elder Sutcliffe?"
The apostle stared at him for a moment, and then he pulled his reading glasses from his face and massaged the bridge of his nose. "That you would even ask me that question says so much. 'What are we to do?' he asks. Dammit, Brother Clark, you act. You don't allow this filth to gain a foothold! You protect the Saints! By any means necessary. Any. Means. Necessary."
"I can assure you that we'll do what's necessary, Elder Sutcliffe," said Merlyn Young, almost at a whisper.
"You had better," said the Apostle. "You all know that we are living in the latter days, and the time grows near for culling the weaklings from the herd. Suffice it to say that there were some so-called 'Saints' at this symposium who have no business poisoning the testimonies of our fellow brothers and sisters. You all know what needs to be done. The bishops and stake presidents are busy men and don't have time to do the legwork necessary. But you already know all this, don't you, Dr. Clark?"
"Yes...yes. Of course," he said.
"And let me say again that the Brethren know about those among you who have been weak. This is to stop immediately, or further action will be taken. Is that understood?"
"Yes, sir," they all said in unison.
"Very well, then." Sutcliffe sat there nodding for what seemed like a minute, running his steel-grey eyes over each of the men a final time, and then he glanced at his watch and sat back. "All right. Dr. Lambeth, if you would be so kind as to offer us a final prayer, and then I need to be going."
...To be continued in Part VIII: A Cloud of Doubt
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Jesus... Got me all nervous up in here. I haven't been this anxious since you know who was ousted from the Cassius faculty.
- Doc
In the face of madness, rationality has no power - Xiao Wang, US historiographer, 2287 AD.
Every record...falsified, every book rewritten...every statue...has been renamed or torn down, every date...altered...the process is continuing...minute by minute. History has stopped. Nothing exists except an endless present in which the Ideology is always right.
Hmm. Are we to understand that in this timeline, the Hinton Institute has the duties that the Strengthening the Church Members Committee has in ours?
"Finally, for your rather strange idea that miracles are somehow linked to the amount of gay sexual gratification that is taking place would require that primitive Christianity was launched by gay sex, would it not?"
Kittens_and_Jesus wrote:... but I think that's more Vonnegut's style than Hemingway's.
Only two people could paint the Kafkaesque world of the Hinton Institute with such accuracy: Bob Bobberson and Kilgore Trout.
Mr. Trout was last seen on Tralfamadore working on a rewrite of the All-Mormon version of the RMS Titanic. The Tralfamadorians insist on the utmost accuracy, but curiously have commissioned a twice life size version of the Titanic, meant to convey double the passenger manifest.
Mr. Trout will be in Provo, Utah in the spring of 2016 when the producers will be hiring a cast of nearly four thousand extras. Expect lucrative bonuses because the Tralfamadorians will spare no expense in creating true to history details.
"Hello"
As soon as you concern yourself with the 'good' and 'bad' of your fellows, you create an opening in your heart for maliciousness to enter. Testing, competing with, and criticizing others weaken and defeat you. - O'Sensei
As he drove home that night, Franklynn was wracked with doubts, and with fear. Elder Sutcliffe had looked directly at him. Did he know? He must know, Frank thought. He was the weak link in the chain, and it was only a matter of time before the entire Hinton Institute learned of what he'd done, of the sins he'd committed. Meanwhile, things at home had begun to deteriorate, too. Denise, the younger of the two twins, had been ill almost non-stop for the past month, and Peyson had been in and out of doctors' offices the whole time: this on top of the Mary Kay business she was trying to maintain, plus the usual stresses and effort involved in maintaining the house. Frank had tried to step up a bit more, which resulted in him putting a red T-shirt into the laundry and ruining a load of whites, and burning their frozen pizza dinner on another occasion. He had offered to make some boxed mac 'n' cheese, but Peyson, looking exhausted and run-down, stepped in and stopped him. He'd hoped that, in trying to help out, Peyson would feel less exhausted, and they could therefore spend some much-needed alone time together, but he had bungled the matter once again. By his count, it had been nearly two months since they'd been intimate.
And so the problems seemed to pile up, with no relief in sight, and now there was this business with Elder Sutcliffe and the Book of Mormon seminar. It felt as though all the pressures in his life were bearing down on him relentlessly. "Why am I being tested like this?" he said, out loud, and then his lower lip began to tremble and a pair of tears squeezed out from the corners of his eyes. He wiped them away with the back of his hand and took in a deep breath and fiddled with the radio. The first station that came in clearly was playing a rock tune, and he recognized it: it was "Rag Doll" by Aerosmith, something he'd had to listen to covertly in his younger days. He bobbed his head to the rhythm and put on his signal as he exited the off-ramp and made his way into the suburban cul-de-sac where he lived. As he shut off the car, he readjusted the radio to a Church station, just in case. Peyton seldom used the car, but if she did, he didn't want her knowing that he'd been listening to such things. He also took a look at himself in the rearview mirror, to see whether it was obvious that he'd cried. Peyson had seen him cry before a few times, but he wasn't in the mood to get into a discussion with her tonight on whatever the reasons might be for him crying in the car. More accurately, he didn't feel like lying to her. He shut the car door and made his way into the house.
Inside, everything was quiet, and all the lights were turned off save for the kitchen light. Franklynn set down his coat and walked into the dining room. On the table was a hand-written letter:
Frank,
I've taken the girls to my mom's place for the next few days, just for a little vacation. I know how busy and stressed you've been with work and didn't want to bug you about this. I made the sour cream and onion chip casserole that you like. It's in the fridge, all you have to do is heat it up in the microwave for 3 minutes, stir and then microwave for 3 minutes more. We'll give you a call tonight to say g'nite!
Love you, Peyson
He looked at the note for a few moments longer and then set it down. What did it mean? Was he meant to read more into it then what was there? She probably just needs a little break is all he told himself, but it didn't make him feel very much better. Instead, he kept thinking over and over of the lines from the song: "Hot tramp, daddy's little cutie.... Never see her leaving by the back door..."
He went to the fridge and got a can of root beer and carried it downstairs to the basement, where he fired up the computer. He checked his email and perused a few things that his department chair had sent to him. There was also an email from Howell which was labeled "URGENT." He opened it up and read: "Hi Frank. I tried calling you, but you didn't answer. You may want to get online and take a look asap." Franklynn reached into his pocket and got out his phone, but there was no sign of Howell having called. Maybe he meant the office phone? He clicked on Firefox and navigated to MormonDiscourse.com. At the top of the main forum was a thread, started by an anonymous anti-Mormon poster named 'Cracker Jack.' The title of the thread seemed to pulsate on the screen:
PLAGIARISM IN THE WORK OF FRANKLYNN CARMICHAEL, LAST CHANCE TO COME CLEAN!!!
He could feel his blood pressure rising. He took a drink of his root beer and clicked on the link. Sure enough, it was the usual taunts, but this time there was something more: whoever "Cracker Jack" was had tracked down a pair of quotations comparing and contrasting the tidbits from his dissertation with the sources he'd lifted them from. He sat there scanning through the quotes for a moment more, his mouth half open, muttering incoherently to no one in particular. The responses so far were relatively mild. Merlyn and others were remarking that the quotes were insubstantial at best, and didn't even meet the formal definition of plagiarism. Others, like "The Needle," who Frank detested, insisted that more information would be forthcoming. Frank navigated back to the main forum page: the thread had already been viewed over 10,000 times. Had he been exposed? Sweat had begun to roll down his ribs and he leaned back in the chair and once again felt like weeping. What was he supposed to do? Nothing? He wondered if he should phone Howell to ask for advice.
Who would do this to me? he wondered. He immediately thought of the anti-Mormon who'd been harassing him: the one who called him "Carbuncle." Could I have prevented this? he asked himself. Maybe I should have gone to Lagoon. He marveled disgustedly at the amount of time that must have gone into this sort of data-mining. The internet had made it easier to access his dissertation, but whoever was behind the thread had seemingly gone through all of the sources in order to build the case that he'd plagiarized. "This is just the tip of the iceberg," Cracker Jack has said. And what if this got back to his degree-granting institution? They'd take away his doctorate for sure. He didn't know what he should do next, but knew he needed to do something. He entered his screen name and logged in and started hammering out a reply:
A few things:
First, you are a coward to be doing this from behind the mask of anonymity. Anyone who makes accusations as serious as this should have the guts to make them under his or her own name.
Second, I'm pretty sure that what you're doing constitutes cyber stalking. You can rest assured that if your harassment doesn't stop immediately, I'm going to press charges to the full extent that the law allows.
Third, if you think you have a legitimate case against me, I recommend you contact the Egyptology Department at Princeton University, my degree-granting institution. That you would post this to an anti-Mormon message board speaks volumes about your real intentions.
He was about to click "SUBMIT" when he paused. He knew that he should not post in anger; it had happened before and he regretted it. And then he noticed that he had a new Private Message in his inbox. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it was from "Korihor Smith."
Too bad that it's come to this. If you had a real spine, none of this would have been necessary. It doesn't have to go any further, though. Give me a call and we'll work something out. You have 24 hours to respond.
At the bottom of the message was a phone number with a Wyoming area code. Frank looked at when the message had been sent, and he realized that it was sent to him almost immediately after the thread had been posted. Either "Korihor Smith" and "Cracker Jack" were the same person, or they were working together. Frank picked up his cell phone and looked at it, and then he looked back at the screen. What choice did he have? He could do nothing in the hopes that they were only bluffing, but then again, he knew that they knew: it was clear that they were aware of his plagiarism, and that they had the evidence to prove it. But did they have all the evidence? Further, even if he cooperated, what was to stop him/them from posting anyway? Without knowing what they wanted, though, he had no basis for making a decision. He shut his eyes and said a quiet prayer. When he was finished, he picked up the phone and dialed, and listened to it ringing. And then it picked up:
"Hello?"
"Hi.... I don't know who this is, but I got your message. So here I am, calling you. Just like you asked." He let out a long sigh.
"Ah! All right! Professor Carbuncle! I knew you'd eventually see the light. I didn't recognize the number, but now I'll go ahead and add you to my contacts list. Now I've got your cell number. Excellent."
"So, what is it you want?"
"I think I've been consistent with you. I want the truth."
"Yeah, you said that. You want to ruin me is what you want."
There was laughter. Loud laughter. "Now, what gave you that impression? That's the last thing I want to do. But I do think honesty is important. And I want to meet! I tried to get you to come see me at Lagoon. But obviously that didn't work out."
"Why do you want to meet?"
"Because doing things online feels artificial. I think that if we met face to face it would be easier to work out our differences. You know, break bread." There was a pause. "So are you doing anything tonight?"
Franklin's mind drifted upstairs, and he remember with a pang of sadness that he was alone. "No," he said at last. "I don't have plans tonight."
"Fantastic!" There was a sound in the background: like papers being shuffled, perhaps, or of the phone being switched from one ear to the other. "Just fantastic. There is this nice, quiet little out-of-the-way place in Draper called The Iron Rod. Meet me there tonight at 8:00."
"I don't know if I can do this. What kind of place is this?" Already, he was Googling the name and clicking on the Yelp! review that came up: it was something called a "brewpub."
"Look, Frank: either you meet me tonight, or you don't. Exercise your free agency. You're an adult and you're fully aware of the consequences of your actions. So you can choose to meet me, or not. You already said that you don't have plans. Make a choice. Do what's right. Choose the right, Elder Carbuncle."
"I wish you wouldn't call me that."
"Come and see me."
"We'll see," he said, and he hung up. The clock on his computer screen said "6:18." He thought about calling Howell or Merlyn, to get their advice, or to see if one of them would come along. He knew they'd be dismissive, though: they'd tell him what they always did, which was that the anti-Mormons were cowards and jackasses, and that he needed to simply stand his ground, that he had the Restored Gospel on his side, and so on. Which was easy for them to say: it wasn't their career and professional reputations that were on the line. No, this was something he needed to do on his own. He shut down the computer and went up stairs and got his coat, and he also opened up the small vault on the top shelf of the closet and got out his 9 mm. He checked it to make sure it was loaded, and then he tucked it into the back of his pants, and went downstairs.
To be concluded in Part IX: "You knew what I was when you picked me up..."
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