My recent article about my encounter with the DOJ and FBI, “Revenge is a Dish Best Served Cold,” has prompted a few readers to share their interesting encounters with the Feds. Here are two of them:

My friend Cali, a Chicago-based journalist who often travels to troubled parts of the world like Afghanistan, Chechnya, and Haiti, checks in with this account of his brush with the FBI.

Cali writes: I had my own interesting adventure with the Feds this summer. I had gotten death threats from some long-dead Croatian terrorist group that you are probably highly amused even existed (from what I understand, their weapon of choice was a club made out of stale baklava). It was obviously crap, but it wasn't the first one I received, so I wanted to follow up with the Feds.

Huge mistake.

First, I left a message with the agent. He was the guy in charge of computer crime, since this thing was sent by email (and it's really funny to read: "HEY FUCKFACE, I'M GOING TO CHOP OFF YOUR MOTHER FUCKING HEAD" followed by "Do You Yahoo?") Thing is, he didn't call me back. Not that day. Not the next. By this point, I figure that unless these Croatians have decided to start wrapping Holiday Inn towels around their heads and shooting amateur movies of themselves setting off M-80s inside of captured neighborhood pets, this just isn't high on the Feds' to-do list.

About ten days later, I finally get a call back from the FBI. For your information, it didn't say 000-0000 on the caller ID; it said something weird like "US GOV FBI," initials which, when presented digitally, nearly made me lose control of my colon. I remembered what he was calling about, but was leaving the next day for Mexico City and forgot about it.

I get back a week later and there's about 80 messages on my phone from people wondering if I'm still alive. The last time this happened when I was in Mexico, a few people drove commercial aircraft into famous movie backgrounds, so I'm now wondering what crucial, life-altering news has happened while I was passed out with my cheek flat against cold linoleum.

It turns out that an agent from the FBI came by my apartment. The doorman was new, and didn't know who I was. So they went up to the management office, who told them that no one lived in this place (my landlord is a little elderly and usually doesn't produce a new lease until several months after the last one expires). So they ran a check on me and found pretty much nothing. They called my landlord who, they were told, was attending the funeral of a friend.

Now the FBI starts freaking out, thinking that because of their tardiness, the Croatian terrorists had succeeded and I was wiped out by a club of stale baklava and they now have the blood of a young reporter on their hands. I gave him all the information that would prove I was a real person and not a clever Croatian terrorist merely pretending to be me while he delivered a few kicks to my swollen testicles as I was chained to a radiator.

Everything was settled, but he insisted on coming by to "pay a visit," to "drop something off with you." That's the word he used: "something." Thinking what the hell this could be, I began pacing around and thinking of everything I could have possibly done to deserve being led off in handcuffs. The agent couldn't find parking, though, so I met him in the lobby with my faithful Boston Terrier Luigi, thinking that perhaps this tragically cute dog could protect me from being led away.

It turned out that he wanted to drop off a pamphlet, entitled "Your Rights as a Victim of Crime."

Anyway, that's my Club Fed story. Yours is better, but I can assure you that just thinking of "US GOV FBI" still causes me to wet the bed several times per week.

jimmyD sez: As a rule, we don’t allow Croatians in the porn biz, although this thing about clubs made out of stale baklava has got me thinking about the possibility of using a stale baklava dildo in a flick. I’m thinking a story line could go something like this: There are these Croatian terrorists who aren’t really terrorists but they think that telling people they ARE terrorists, i.e., telling hot chics they’re terrorists, might impress the girls and help them get laid. It's a comedy, of course, since the whole idea of Croatian terrorists is pretty absurd. Anyway, then I’ll work the stale baklava dildo thing into the story which won’t be to hard to do cause, well, because it’s porn. What’d’ya think? Ya think the viewers can suspend disbelief enough to accept Croatian terrorists as porn studs?

Big Lee, a reader from Northern California, sends me the following story.

Big Lee writes: Hey JD........that was a Good story man! Seems like sooner or later, we all get Fucked by someone in business, and when that Jerk Off comes under the scope of the law....we get visitors. I had an associate years ago, who like yours was a total pieceashit, and one day these "surfer" looking dudes in T-shirts and sandals walked into my office. When they flashed FBI badges I almost dove under the desk. The conversation was really light and easy going...like...Hey Guy… how long you known this guy? They hung around, drank coffee even took me to lunch. Then they started calling me at home about names, dates, social security numbers....I knew this was not going away soon. After a couple of weeks of silence, the office was stormed by Treasury Agents, FBI, US Marshals, everyone held back at gunpoint, while they ransacked every desk and hauled off every file, phones, computers, and left the place in ruin. Fucked UP was my point of view. My boy was just 9 years old when this happened, and remembers it vividly. I never heard from or saw the two "agents" again. Our "Associate" was convicted of two Misdemeanors and served 340 days in Federal custody. My point is that these guys move slowly and of course never put they're cards in the open. When they call and come around again and again.......something’s getting ready to go down. --Big Lee

ps: they have a form that they asked me to sign. It stated that I was to be a "confidential informant". Bullshit!! I knew that form was synonymous with "SNITCH", and I wouldn’t sign it. I told ‘em Fuck You! You guys go run your own show. Perhaps they resented that. But again, Fuck em! I'm Not an Ear! And that’s exactly what they'll tell everyone.

jimmyD sez: Weren’t the FBI guys in that movie, “Point Break,” surfers? I seem to remember Patrick Swayze or someone like that was an FBI agent or an undercover cop or what have you and he wore sandals and dressed like a surfer and, I think, was an actual surfer. I think he was going after Keannu Reeves who was the bad guy. Or it might have been the other way around with Keannu the good guy and Swayze the heavy. I don't really remember, not that it's important. But hey! Maybe your story was the inspiration for that story? If so, they should be paying you residuals.





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