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The Death Clock of the PENG CHALLENGE Thread Tolls for Thee


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A lone figure calls an earless hound to his side, and fastens a piece of paper upon a wrought iron gate. He stares at the grounds beyond the walls briefly, then squares his shoulders and strolls off down the dusty road, faithful dog trotting alongside.

Ahh, white space. Before I hit the keyboard with my fumbling, nacho cheese-stained fingertips, the whiteness is pure, unsullied, chaste. There are good things about such purity.

But simple purity is not enough, lest the MBT become like Hiram's collection of First Edition Magic: The Gathering cards - sure they look nice, all in lot cases and still in their original shrinkwrap, but until someone opens them and plays them, they are a mere concept, not yet a game.

So we must dirty the white spaces. Fill them. But are random marks and squiggles enough? Shouldn't a deflowerment of such space serve a purpose, even if the space itself does not?

So it is seemly that we should cast our markings here and there, that much is true. But in what fashion? Have our efforts been worthwhile? I fear perhaps not. We have deflowered white spaces all around us and used their remains to build for ourselves, not for the MBT. We have indeed wrought differently among ourselves, some have laid rules down like track, upon which challenges must lumber like iron horses with no freedom. Others of us have raised mighty structures and Named them, and called others unto them, and grown content though they house no Hatred, only Cleverness. In our pride we have become slothful and base, and known Rank and

Priviledge.

In the Long Ago Before Time, there was a bright burning core to the MBT. It had a name, and needed no worship, only acknowledgement. Its Name was Hatred, and it has been lost.

I go now to find it.

I leave behind my house, my rank, my titles, and my pride. I have no need of them. I am no kanigget, no senior kanigget, no count. I will set this iron horse free, and though Old Joe may run callin' Wi-i-i-i-ldfire!, I shall not return to the stifling tracks.

I shall roam and challenge any whom I wish, be they SSN or Olde One, and likewise will I accept challenges. I shall taunt. I shall persiflage hither and yon, and I will find that which I seek, or at least my small piece of it.

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Originally posted by dalem:

A lone figure calls an earless hound to his side, and fastens a piece of paper upon a wrought iron gate. He stares at the grounds beyond the walls briefly, then squares his shoulders and strolls off down the dusty road, faithful dog trotting alongside.

Ahh, white space. Before I hit the keyboard with my fumbling, nacho cheese-stained fingertips, the whiteness is pure, unsullied, chaste. There are good things about such purity.

But simple purity is not enough, lest the MBT become like Hiram's collection of First Edition Magic: The Gathering cards - sure they look nice, all in lot cases and still in their original shrinkwrap, but until someone opens them and plays them, they are a mere concept, not yet a game.

So we must dirty the white spaces. Fill them. But are random marks and squiggles enough? Shouldn't a deflowerment of such space serve a purpose, even if the space itself does not?

So it is seemly that we should cast our markings here and there, that much is true. But in what fashion? Have our efforts been worthwhile? I fear perhaps not. We have deflowered white spaces all around us and used their remains to build for ourselves, not for the MBT. We have indeed wrought differently among ourselves, some have laid rules down like track, upon which challenges must lumber like iron horses with no freedom. Others of us have raised mighty structures and Named them, and called others unto them, and grown content though they house no Hatred, only Cleverness. In our pride we have become slothful and base, and known Rank and

Priviledge.

In the Long Ago Before Time, there was a bright burning core to the MBT. It had a name, and needed no worship, only acknowledgement. Its Name was Hatred, and it has been lost.

I go now to find it.

I leave behind my house, my rank, my titles, and my pride. I have no need of them. I am no kanigget, no senior kanigget, no count. I will set this iron horse free, and though Old Joe may run callin' Wi-i-i-i-ldfire!, I shall not return to the stifling tracks.

I shall roam and challenge any whom I wish, be they SSN or Olde One, and likewise will I accept challenges. I shall taunt. I shall persiflage hither and yon, and I will find that which I seek, or at least my small piece of it.

Yeah right........what he said!
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Originally posted by dalem:

Something clever I'm sure

Ah, perhaps the long lost hatred of the thread is not lost. But is hatred really the soul? Berli may wish it to be so, but I doubt, I yearn, I wish for more damn time to play that which gives meaning to life.

DALEM capitolized in reverence to the quest in which you now embark. I wish you death, mutilation, and taunting galor.

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Originally posted by Mace:

Mike

Member No 364: Number of Posts 47

MBT Comment: Low member number and a minimum number of posts: Does it really take that long to string a sentence together!

Mace

Only if it's worth reading - you might well consider posting something worth reading some day too.
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Originally posted by Mr_Gonzo_The_Rooster:

Master Hiram Sedai ,

Yes we have match our skills on the Battlefield and I remember losing, and winning...

Rooster

you Lost to Hiram? YOU LOST to HIRAM?

AHHA HA HA AHAHAH !!!!!

That's pretty funny.

Lost to Hiram, oh my. <sniff> hooboy!

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Originally posted by dalem:

In the Long Ago Before Time, there was a bright burning core to the MBT.

Can't you just feel the love here? dalem (do you capitalize that, for the beginning of a sentence?), for you to really and truly hate, you have to lose the dog. For dogs epitomize blind, unerring love. Well, dogs and mormon wives, but let's keep this within the bounds of decency. Ah, yes. The faithful hound. Kick him, and he will still come back. Spit on him, and he will return to lap your hand. Lose his ears in combat...well, you get the idea.

You must wage this campaign in stony silence. With steel-eyed determination, clenched jaw, white-knuckled fists. Unencumbered by affection. Unfettered by companionship, your heartstrings taut. Tightened still further by rage and envy. Your loneliness will only fuel the burning forge of your contempt. Only then will you achieve the pure essence that is the MBT.

Do this, and the sounds of songbirds will be as the screams of hell. You will not revel in the sunset, as it only portends the dark emptiness. Every sight of lovers holding hands will sear into your very being. Only then can you have the barest inkling of true hatred.

Of course, if you're married, that's another matter. Maybe time to borrow the shotgun from Lars, and do a bit of hunting. Or, get a really big cat.

[ July 19, 2002, 11:06 PM: Message edited by: R_Leete ]

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Blast, damn and Hell, can't you lot do ANYTHING in my absence? Let me rephrase that, can't you lot do anything RIGHT in my absence.

Gone a week, dropped in twice just to be sure the eternal flame was still lit (okay, TECHNICALLY it's just a methane leak that Berli started with a match not quite out but work with me okay?) and look what's happened!

SSNs wandering about and spouting off about Gawd knows what (don't they teach paragraphs in school anymore), dalem wandering off into the wilderness on some quest and Berli abandoning the role of Olde One?

Well I won't have it! Berli you're NOT replacable ... certainly not by a cretin like Panzer Leader, I mean ... come ON!

Now if it's the First Semi-Irregular CessPool House Tourney that has your panties in a bunch you may consider it dead and gone ... pity of course, and you DID tell me you thought it a good idea.

In any case I'm back lads. Turns when I get around to it, the British Open is on you know.

Joe

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Set himself up by PL, and added to by others.

See Mrspkr, I am like a fine wine, an aged cheese.
The fine whine would be like a Qantas jet engine running down after a long flight, I imagine. The aged cheese does not bear consideration...well, probably sloppy Brie.

Easy shots are the best.

Noba.

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Oh, I've just discovered that I've got cooties. That's not cuties, I wouldn't be able to do much with a cutie, but I do have cooties. See, one has landed on me nose... fge-multicootie3.gif

... and what with me fungal infection fge-greencootie2.giffge-pinkcootie3.giffge-patriotcootie2.gif... oh, dear, oh dearie me *sniff*... hatetul, positively hateful little critters.

Yeknod o' tha Thistle and Defender of the Paddock

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In a darkened room, somewhere in Phoenix. A figure sits. The room, with one single bed that shows signs of much exertion inflicted upon it, is lit by the soft glow from an LCD screen. It's glow softly illuminating the face of a youngish person. He bends closer to the screen, a slight smile on his face.

Just then, a knock ! Well, more like a kids "secret knock". It was two quick knocks, a pause and then three slow knocks. The figure sighs and move to the latch, muttering and shaking his head. Opens the door slightly, turns and sits down without looking to see who enters. He again bends over the keyboard and begins to type.

The newcomer slips quickly into the room and with undue haste closes the door suddenly, catching his fingers painfully.

"AHHSSSSSS- TTT !" escapes his clenched teeth as he bends and drops the heavily laden briefcase to the floor. The figure at the keyboard speaks witout turning.

"Don't bleed on the carpet, I'll lose my bond money."

The newcomer just glares at his back, sucking his wounded hand.

"Did you get the list ?" the figure hisses, warning etched into the words, again without turning...

"Yes. I told you I would", the newcomer replies. Bending to the briefcase, he takes out an ordinary piece of paper with his good hand and hands it to the figure hunched at his keyboard.

A minute passes as the figure stops typing and looks at the paper. He finally turns and in a voice low with menace growls..

"This is worthless !"

The newcomer recoils, taken to cowering in the glare of the younger man...

"But, but..." he stammers, only to be brutally cut short by the retort...

"I told you. I need everyone's position. Not just the Olde Ones and a few Knights. Everyone. Have you lost your mind, Old Man ? Can you not 'Do A Search, or Somefink !' I need everyones place in the pool if this to work. No Tournament will work without a full list. Incompetent Old Banker !"

The Older Man is visibly cowered by the vitriol in the reply. He mumbles into his chest...

"I will try again. When I get home to my wives"

His shoulders slump, another long trip to home beckons, he wants to be gone. The figure at the keyboard turns back to typing, he ignores the Older Man.

Reaching to pick up the heavily laden briefcase, the Older Man speaks hesitantly, whining like Frank Burns...

"I do hope your plan works. It will give me great pleasure to make MY House the number one in the Pool. I'm not doing this for myself, you realize. It is for the glory of the House. We need to raise ourselves from the lowest part in such a way there can be no doubt who is BEST."

And then with more force, but still humbled, and more to himself.

"I Will have it !"

He stops at the door and glowers at the frame with bits of skin stuck to it. Turning to the screen, he peers over to read what he can, when suddenly the figure typing stops, turns and fixing him with a steely stare, menacingly says..

"You are mine. Your association with me is a secret as long as I want it to remain that way. Remember it well !"

The Older Man turn to the door and leaves. When he is safely outside, he looks again at the tattoo on his forearm. The tattoo put there in a forgotten night of revellry in a bar he can't remember the name of, in a town so far away. A night when GB came into his life.

And stayed.......

Noba.

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Originally posted by dalem:

Snippage of a long passage about this and that. In truth I can't comment on what a huge pile of drivel it likely was. It was rather long so I didn't bother to read it.

In the Long Ago Before Time, there was a bright burning core to the MBT. It had a name, and needed no worship, only acknowledgement. Its Name was Hatred, and it has been lost.

I go now to find it.

I leave behind my house, my rank, my titles, and my pride. I have no need of them. I am no kanigget, no senior kanigget, no count. I will set this iron horse free, and though Old Joe may run callin' Wi-i-i-i-ldfire!, I shall not return to the stifling tracks.

I shall roam and challenge any whom I wish, be they SSN or Olde One, and likewise will I accept challenges. I shall taunt. I shall persiflage hither and yon, and I will find that which I seek, or at least my small piece of it.

WWWOOOOOOOO HHHHOOOOOOO!! I'm thinking this means no more d*mn Box for me, boyos. Hey, dalem, my Liege, gonna miss ya, babe. Just leave the keys to House Persiflage on the kitchen table, ok?

And oh yeah, while you're out roaming about in the world singing your merry tune of true hatred, why not buy a freaking capital D, ok? Or better yet, since I blame you for these infernal Box splinters I keep finding in my behind, why not allow me to enlighten you as to the true nature of hatred, you wicked, wretched, twisted old fruit.

Because I know you can't count any higher, I suggest 1500 points.

Because I know you wanted me to play nothing but Meeting Engagements, I suggest an Attack/Defend scenario or QB.

Because I shall enjoy exercising my superior tactical awareness upon you using the minions of Panzer Armee Khann, and also because I don't really care which side you like, I suggest that I play the Axis.

Once you were my Liege. Now you are a Lesion upon the name of Persiflage. And I shall skewer you for it.

What say ye?

Papa

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Originally posted by Joe Shaw:

Blast, damn and Hell, can't you lot do ANYTHING in my absence? Let me rephrase that, can't you lot do anything RIGHT in my absence.

Gone a week, dropped in twice just to be sure the eternal flame was still lit (okay, TECHNICALLY it's just a methane leak that Berli started with a match not quite out but work with me okay?) and look what's happened!

SSNs wandering about and spouting off about Gawd knows what (don't they teach paragraphs in school anymore), dalem wandering off into the wilderness on some quest and Berli abandoning the role of Olde One?

Well I won't have it! Berli you're NOT replacable ... certainly not by a cretin like Panzer Leader, I mean ... come ON!

Now if it's the First Semi-Irregular CessPool House Tourney that has your panties in a bunch you may consider it dead and gone ... pity of course, and you DID tell me you thought it a good idea.

In any case I'm back lads. Turns when I get around to it, the British Open is on you know.

Joe

Damn Joes Squaw you inflict possibly the worst conditions ever for a game on us, then say it's dead!!! Now myself and CMPlayer are wandering about in an unholy map, where neither of us can see 2 yards in front of our faces, and for what! FOR NOTHING......you damn well cancelled the Tourney.......you doddering old git!
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Originally posted by Yeknodathon:

Oh, I've just discovered that I've got cooties. That's not cuties, I wouldn't be able to do much with a cutie, but I do have cooties. See, one has landed on me nose... fge-multicootie3.gif

... and what with me fungal infection fge-greencootie2.giffge-pinkcootie3.giffge-patriotcootie2.gif... oh, dear, oh dearie me *sniff*... hatetul, positively hateful little critters.

Yeknod o' tha Thistle and Defender of the Paddock

I think we need to quarantine the paddock.

Persephone

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Originally posted by athkatla:

Now myself and CMPlayer are wandering about in an unholy map, where neither of us can see 2 yards in front of our faces, and for what! FOR NOTHING

Well not entirely nothing. The fun of beating you by about 91 to 9 will make it worthwhile.
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All of my turns have been sent out. I do hope all of my opponents die a fiery and humiliating death because of my awe inspiring strategery.

One opponent springs to mind because of his infernal machinations. He is a barrister of ill repute. His gamey use of artillery makes me want to kick the nearest lawyer in the nether regions. Since lawyers live in the nether regions, it is yet another moot point.

I haven't received a turn from Slapdragon since the end of May which makes me think that he is afraid of me. He sits in his squad car quaking at the thought of a whoopin' at the hands of the Hirsute one. I'm sure he takes it out on the perps with clubbing.

So, if I owe you a turn, you are mistaken and should send me a turn. If you owe me a turn, then send it and prepare for the jackboot of justice to be placed squarely upon your flat forehead.

A little notice to all of the sycophants calling themselves inhabitants of the "House of Croda". Your master owes me a turn. See that he does the right thing and sends me a turn. Also, try to understand that he will only lead you to ruin and it would be best for you to end your sorry existance soon.

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Originally posted by CMplayer:

</font><blockquote>quote:</font><hr />Originally posted by athkatla:

Now myself and CMPlayer are wandering about in an unholy map, where neither of us can see 2 yards in front of our faces, and for what! FOR NOTHING

Well not entirely nothing. The fun of beating you by about 91 to 9 will make it worthwhile.</font>
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Noba you idiot, if you can't stay up with the rest of the group we'll have to assign you to the special class AGAIN and you know what that means ... yes, the short bus and the helmet and the teasing all over AGAIN!

The GB segment of the thread ran its course ages ago lad, do TRY to pay attention.

Joe

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As a public service, I am hereby notifying my opponents that I will be away from the 22d to the 28th of July inclusive. So you can keep on not sending me turns, fecking idjits.

Any 'Poolers in the greater Dallas, TX area will probably want to evacuate or face the prospect of buying me beer.

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Originally posted by Hiram Sedai:

A little notice to all of the sycophants calling themselves inhabitants of the "House of Croda". Your master owes me a turn. See that he does the right thing and sends me a turn. Also, try to understand that he will only lead you to ruin and it would be best for you to end your sorry existance soon.

I'm sorry, was that supposed to be some kind of taunt? You wouldn't happen to live downwind of that garbage dump fire that's been burning in your state for the last 23 years or so, do you? I'm just wondering if it might be the lack of oxygen to that organ that, for want of a more appropriate name, we might as well call a brain, or if the untreated syphillis has finally won out over your body's defenses.

One can only hope.

As for m'Lud, Croda or any of us who inhabit the proud House of Croda (Pancakes! All you can eat: $3.99. 7 to 9am weekdays!), have a care HeeHaw, any one of us could tear through you like cholera through a slum, and that's a fairly apt analogy.

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I lurk far across the field I see and hear Steel beasts lurking near the colors of gray and black hanging high. This SSN is grounded with his 300pt French motor infantry forces facing the Self Proclaimed Champion of the Cesspool, MTB.

Little does he know that the French that are green only from drinking wine and eating too much cheese. They are watching as The Champion continues to shoot fire and making more holes to plant their orchard of pear trees after the battle.

CMplayer Where the heck is the next turn!

I will be in the Mountains all next week fishig up some ideas on who to challenge next!

Goanna you sissy where are you hiding I am waiting for you too. Are you putting on some greasy make-up? At the dressmakers? SOD OFF and BOOT .

Rooster

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Originally posted by Yeknodathon:

Oh, I've just discovered that I've got cooties. That's not cuties, I wouldn't be able to do much with a cutie, but I do have cooties. See, one has landed on me nose... fge-multicootie3.gif

... and what with me fungal infection fge-greencootie2.giffge-pinkcootie3.giffge-patriotcootie2.gif... oh, dear, oh dearie me *sniff*... hatetul, positively hateful little critters.

We would suggest you lay off eating those mushrooms then.

Mace

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