Leeo

Stuka, me liege, I am proud of your strong desire to slip the silvery bonds of earth, and God Bless the loverly Lady Stukes for sending you skyward in an obsolete prop driven death coffin. I'm still betting on gravity. However, She has my undying admiration and gratitude. Please inform the Lady that next time I will be perfectly happy to pay the extra 'tip' that would've ensured cockpit failure (not that there's anything wrong with that) and the parting of webbed restraint systems. It's the least I can pretend to do. Oh, and you owe me a game.

I've had umpteen fingers of vodka, and I'll dominate eberey last man-jack amongst ya. S'Truth! Any-who, that prodigal aussie Stuka owes me a set-up.

Four Fingers of Vodka can only help. And hey, you've got two hands, so (let me help walk you through this), 2*4=8, eight fingers of vodka. Now, a little key lime and some tonic splashed on eight fingers of voka from a plastic bottle (can't hardly beat a little polyvinylchloride in place of the angostura), and you can help yourself straight into catatonia. That can't hurt. Until you sober up the next day. However, if you never sober up, you never have to pay the piper. TAKE THAT OGSF! I ain't payin' ya!

Ah, Joe, and how much of your Syrian armor have I made go BOOM? I know I've killed several, but I'll be dipped in earwax if I have any idear which one o' my lads did the dirty deed.

I live because I'm allowed it. Others live because they can, some live because they think they have the right, yet others live because they feel they should prove the naught-iness of life. I live because I was meant to be. I live becase... ahhh feck-it, I live.

I've always thought the Northwest never got it's proper due. Unless you are a Keseyarian Paul Newman, that is.

Stop Making Sense!

I think I'm ugly, in an cute sort of way. Easy. Easy post, minimal effort. It's something an SSN would do. Which only goes to prove that I haven't evolved. Which means I feed off the leavings of others. Which basically makes me a scavenger, like a vulture, if you will. Which are cute in an ugly sort of way. Which conveniently proves my theorem. Which proves that I must've evolved in sum weigh. Which shows that.... Holy jumping Peng, Berli, and Seanachai on a unicycle, please make it stop!

I am risen. Or resin. Crap and damn, I hate the syntactically specific universe in which I reside. I am from/will ultimately create a perfect universe. It just so happens that the Error of Time is pointing in a particularly chaotic direction at the moment; however, if I don't like it, all's I got's to do is wait's a minute's until I tern's inta's a' ungulate. Yeah, dat's it.

This Peng thing is killing us? Well, I know we're all dying bit by bit every day, decaying into twighlight, each exhalation a slow letting go, a loosening of grip on this ethereal running down of our physical universe.... But this Peng thing, I don't think that speeds things along much more than a trickle of a tickle.

I would like to clearly state, in no uncertain terms, that Joe Shaw is a non-turn sending mamby pamby fancy pants. And, he licks his fingers. Constantly.

This Here is the glorious Mutha Beautiful Thread. We hate oddstralians. We can tolerate them for short periods (it's the new birf-control, dontchaknow), but in general, they are the heat-rash on the bum of our planet. They protest, squawk, and prance about, like (temporary translation) Wombat Enamoured Didgeridoos. It don't mean pee-knuckle. If'n you want to play a game, pick out one on your own level (if'n you're new here, that means you need to recruit someone of your own base class) and challenge them, specifically, to a game. No, "I'll whip the lot of ya," challenges. That just won't fly (kinda like the souls of oddstralians). Act like you gotta pair, but speak not about the oddstralian's paring of sensibility. The Ladies of the 'pool are sacrosanct. Treat them with deference (i.e., like someone not from oddstralyia). Defer to your betters (which includes anyone NOT from oddstralia), as we have been there, done that, and it ain't all it's cracked up to be. In other words, Don't be Oddstralian. There are other rules, but you don't deserve to know them.

I say I need a drink or four!

Stuka, my liege, your presence here is the cesspool equivalent to a lump of coal. Since you'll be torturing your laptop during your trip, don't you owe me a set-up? I'm feeling a strong urge to surrender...

I hear Joe say, "Muh mwha, muh mwah mwa mwha mwa." I'm unsure as to what this means, other than: "Ding-dong, the witch is dead, the witch is dead, the witch is dead!" What? No? Whell, Crap and damn. Damn and crap. Why do I feel more and more like Sisyphus?

What is this mystical thing called a "liver," and how does it taste with onions?

I still don't know who the hell he is. Truth is, I still don't know who the hell I am, so it appears we may have a lot in common. You know, me living fat and happy in comfy civilian job, and he, well, uh, you know.

I somehow recognize the patois of this Wolfinsheepsclothingthingamajob. Then again, I recognize the beauty inherent in the soft glistening sheen on the stilled waters of the 'pool and the banality imbued into harsh sounds of stories mouthed like soft cowflops into the dark, dank, demented dredgings in the reCesses of this mythical mythtery of methuselahian mental patienths. Yesth, that's it.

I'm ever so happy to have made you sad. Perhaps you might even be feeling a little suicidal? I mean, you must be disappointed and all now that I'm lacking "fluency and grace." What's the point, then, eh? Wouldn't the quick flash and ensuing darkness of a bath with a toaster bring the long, peaceful night you so raptly desire? I know you had such high hopes for me; and look at what I've done. I've dashed those hopes you cherished so dear. You're welcome.

Indeed, I am the Zen Master of Losingtude.

Eat feces, Non-player!

Slime away, Ol' Foul Joe. I haven't yet played anyone with alzheimer's, so it would prove a real treat, I'm sure. Whether I win (I doubt it) or lose (more likely), you won't understand, know, or care.

They ain't dead, they're merely restin'. I see you ain't showin' the bill-dings wots crumbled, propagandist bastiche.

I, for one, would like to personally proclaim Stuka, eh, ah, feck it. Send me a new opportunity to paint you ass. So let it be written, so let it be done. (Feckin' bastige, destroyed all my tanks and then methodically pummeled my infantry into submission, why he oughta be shot, or maimed, or otherwise employed). However, I hold no grudge. Any of you bastiges play CMSF? Because if'n you do, I can guarantee that you are a millk-toast-hide-behind-yo'-mamma-skirts-wanna-be. S'truth!

Stuka is a devious, PzKwIV killing bastige, and I played the role of surrender monkey to him only to make him gloat and show his bicuspids. I shall prevail in our next outing, and even if I lose in points, I shall kill, vent, mutilate and maul a vastly greater proportion of his pixeltruppen, see if I don't! Nidan1and I are trying to cajole two groups of greenies to actually fight each other and not proceed haste-forth with all speed available away from the fight. Using green troops has a certain humor all to often neglected by most players. Boo is defending a city from my Uber-Nazi engineers. I've gotten into the town, but it has been costly. I mean, costly in buildings that have had to be burned, blasted, and rubbled to the ground. Too bad some of Boo's boys were in those buildings. (Hee Hee!). In other news, I'm currently re-reading Sometimes a Great Notion. I'm finding the book a bit thick, primarily because I rarely have a notion at all, let alone a great one.