Hakko Ichiu

Surely a case could be made for valuing them at lower of cost or market, since they might eventually be sold. Furthermore, they could claim the income from the sale up front, while doing an exactly equivalent transaction with the counterparty that they would expense on a 10-year, SL amortization, thus boosting reported income. Why not, everybody does it. But not everybody can pull off a blistering performance such as John Wayne did in his greatest role as the tortured anti-hero of The Searchers.

Admit it, Joe, it was those tight Cavalry pants that did it for you. Come on, you're among friends here. Let me be the first to concede that the Duke was better in SWAYR then he was in, say, The Conqueror. But it wasn't a Patch on his performance in The Searchers. Besides, his character had a better name too. What was it? Oh yeah...

Joe, yer jess smartin' 'cos I menshun'd Slap fust. An' 'cos the Duke's bes' fillum was, "The Searchers", and not "She Wore a Yella Ribbon." Ah huh.

It's been a while. I've been so self-restrained. I've been fighting the good fight in the Outerboards and generally pissing off people who deserve it. Yet, like a scab you've left alone for weeks and just as it's about to heal you have to pick at it until it turns septic and, eventually, gangrenous, I'm drawn back to the Thread that Will Not Die -- no, not the Bren Tripod thread you sheep-wankers, the MBT. I've been able to ignore it for so long, probably because of the utter absence of anyone worthy of my attention. Yes, Berli is here, but he's omnipresent, so best just to pay him no nevermind, as we say down South. Speaking of omnipresent, as in "dull, boring, and omnipresent", Seanachai continues his glabrous, gnome-like existence here, but he's just so much background noise, rather like the sounds of banjo-picking and hog-raping that I hear whenever it's cool enough at the Ol' Homestead to open the window. Yes, I can sit on my front-porch, comfortably ensconced in the pulled-out front seat of a '74 Ford F150, dip my Skoal, sip my sweet, sweet tea, down a dripping handful of pork rinds (that's chiccarones to you Texans), and think of Seanachai. But I prefer not to. No, it is the simultaneous presence of two figures who evoke in me (as in all right-thinking persons) that visceral, unavoidable gag reflex that drags me insensibly back into the 'Cess. I speak, of course, of Slapdragon and Joe Shaw. Yes, these two evoke in me the need to give the 'Pool the cyber equivalent of a rainbow shower. My loathing for them knows no bounds. To be sure, I loathe the rest of you too, if that makes you feel any better -- and I hope it doesn't. But I look at you all with Olympian disdain, excepting, of course, Geier, my loathing for whom can only be described on web-sites that are blocked by NetNanny. But I owe him a turn, not to mention an installment of GrogPorn™, so the less said of him the better for all concerned.

Congrats. Now train the little rug-stainer to sleep. If it crys at night, let it; it'll stop eventually. After you feed it at 3:00 a.m., wipe it, change it, and put it back in it's cage. If it wants love and affection, let it wait until a civilized hour, then give it what it needs. If absolutely necessary, the paci/binky/dummy is your friend. It's a battle, but the battle can be won. Both of ours slept through the night from 8 weeks. Doing this has several advantages, not the least of which is that your wife might feel like having sex again (with you) before your 50th birthday. And Dorosh is like that pesky odor that comes from a backed up sewer line: you just can't keep it out. I loathe you all, but I'm going to see my wife and babies for the first time in six weeks, so sod off the lot of you. And I'm going to have lunch at Peng's Hunan and you're not, so there.

Not Ivan Barkhorn by any chance? I worked w/him many, many moons ago, but at last report he was in Denver or Boulder or someplace at altitude.

There is not that much difference between a Canadian 'un' and a German 'an'. My recollection of what Hamburgisch sounds like is sketchy, but I think think that in Plattdeutsch the two sounds might be even closer. As to the interview, it was very interesting and thanks to Mike D. for posting it. I think his skepticism is warranted, e.g., large supply dumps at the Soviet front line in '41 could just as well be evidence of piss poor logistics rather than aggressive intent. ("Comrade, best not let the men have any spare ammo in case they should get restless. Besides, the Boss says the Germans are our buddies...") I think Martens's statements about amity between Russian civilians and German soldiers could have benefited from more aggressive examination, but such is not always feasible.

Not directly relevant to your query, but many, many moons ago I recall seeing a picture of a Japanese officer in body armor, might have been during the China campaign. It was in one of those omnibus "Weapons of the Japanese Army in WWII" type books that was probably ten or fifteen years old when I saw it in the school library in 1975. ISTR it said that it was phased out by the time of Pearl Harbor because ineffective and cumbersome. Just one small bit of grist for the mill. Funny how memory works, especially as we drift into senescence.

Dorosh, old thing, you seem to have a slightly skewed view of the 'Pool, its reason for existence, and the nature of its denizens. I'll spare you the illustrated diagrams and just point out that those of us who on occasion forsake the fragrant balm of the MBT to venture into the crepuscular, not to say crapulous, waste known as the Outer Board treat it as the cheap hotel that it is and check our baggage at the door. Which is to say we maintain an appropriately schizophrenic separation between 'Pool life and Outer Board life. Now on occasion one or another excrescence will, like some nefarious virus, penetrate the membranes that protect the 'Pool from the various ills of Outside. So it was with Tetsujin Sakai, and look where it got him. More to the point, look where it got us. Do you see any recent traces of Sakai in the 'Pool? No, I thought not. Even more infrequently, one or another of the Kniggets, Olde Ones, Squires et al. will venture forth to lay a rhetorical smack down on some worthwhile target in the Beyond. It's a sort of prophylaxis, rather like what the Israelis did at Osirak in 1981. It happens, but don't stand around like Joshua waiting for the Sun to stop. In other words, Dorosh me lad, you're on your own. Unless, of course, BooBoo gets up the nose of one of us in our Outer Board incarnations. Meanwhile, let me leave you with a piece of wisdom from that great philosopher, Bruce Lee: He who does not know and knows he does not know is ignorant: teach him. He who knows but does not know he knows is blind: enlighten him. He who knows and knows he knows is wise: follow him He who does not know and does not know he does not know is a fool: shun him. Or somefink.

I used to date a girl from Salt Lick City. Mind you, she was from it and not in it. And she was a darn sight better looking than Shandorf. They may not have booze in the home of the Saints, but they do have pie, which is almost as good, especially if you sneak in your own booze.

I used to date a girl who looked remarkably like that. Mind you, she had a much better formed Adam's apple.

I'll just let you light the blue touchpaper on that one...

Actually, a turn was sent to you via HamsterMail™ on Friday last. I await your reply with bated breath (no, Bauhaus, nothing to do with that). So, I say drink, feck, arse to you, sir.

I understand that Seanachai and Yeknodathon both move vigorously during the tossing process.

As to being on the receiving end of a mortar barrage, a little bit of oral history. My 9th Grade English teacher was a Korean War vet. One day not that long after the war, a fellow vet, who'd participated in the retreat to Seoul, visited him in his office. While they were chatting, my teacher pulled off a length of masking tape. The other guy immediately hit the deck. Once he'd composed himself, he said that the masking tape made the exact sound of an incoming NK 81mm (were they designated 83mm??)mortar round.

Truly, gentles all, it is a glorious new day. The New England Patriots have, in a few scant hours erased decades of ignominy by treating the St. Louis Ewes (it's just a name, Mace) like the wooly, cuddly livestock they are. Huzzah! And I now have a cable ISP. The world is my oyster. All your base are belong to us. Make your time. Buwahaha. Oh, and I owe Geier a turn. He has accomplished the amazing feat of over-running an understrength theatrical company with a battalion of over-sexed Hamstertruppen. Now it's my turn. Payback is a bitch.

Rank plagiarism. Goanna is obviously bucking for the title of Steven Ambrose of the 'Pool. Feh!

Ask and you shall receive. Herewith a journal of my journey to the undiscovered country known as South Carolina: ------- Slappy Daze It was one of those days when all Nature seemed to shout “Fore!” The sun shone, a breeze blew, and the thermometer registered a balmy 76° Fahrenheit – in Celsius that would be much warmer than anywhere in Northern Europe at this time of year. Unfortunately I wasn’t to be playing the Grand Game that day. Instead I was heading south of the border (the North Carolina-South Carolina border, that is) for shooting of a rather different kind courtesy of Señor Slapdragon, a.k.a. Steve “Two Belts” Jackson. The drive down was uneventful, save for the single mistake of purchasing a bottle of iced tea at the first rest area, a decision which resulted in my visiting just about every other rest area between Greensboro and Charlotte. Still, the roads were as clear as Steve’s directions, local law enforcement saw fit to bless my driving with benign indifference, and I rolled into the outskirts of Columbia, SC a scant four hours after my departure just as the Dixie sunset turned the horizon to a swath of pink stucco. Upon my arrival I was greeted by Steve and his lovely wife. (As an aside, why is it that those Cesspoolers who actually contrive to meet members of the opposite sex generally manage to marry well above the expectations consistent with their looks, wealth, personalities, and bodily hygiene? A question for another day.) After liquid refreshment for the weary traveler, we headed out to one of Columbia’s fine local restaurants (one of three, apparently), where Steve stood me a chicken kabob of distinction. Thus restored, we proceeded to the main purpose of my journey: playing with things that go ‘bang!’ (sit down, Bauhaus!) Since Steve’s apartment doesn’t actually allow live fire on its premises, we spent the evening rehearsing various weapon handling and law enforcement techniques as practiced by the Richland County Sheriff’s Department. These included drawing from concealment, weapon protection, identification of suspects driving while Black, and the “why are you repeatedly hitting your head against that concrete pillar while in my custody?” maneuver. Exhausted from our recreation, I spent a pleasant night’s sleep interrupted only by the evocative whistle of a freight train at 1:30 a.m., 3:42 a.m., 5:05 a.m., and 6:30 a.m. Then it was time to head for the range where we had a pleasant time blasting off large quantities of ammunition at paper targets. The only blot on the day was the range’s unreasoning refusal to let us practice with Steve’s departmental-issue flamethrower. Banging away all morning sets one up with a sharp appetite, so after depositing our weapons back at Steve’s place, we headed out for lunch, followed by a tour of the University of South Carolina’s campus. Then it was time for the wayfarer to steer his ship by the homeward star. We parted friends, though I have to admit I was a bit surprised when Steve gave me a manly yet intimate farewell hug. But my biggest surprise was yet to come. I confess I thought it odd to be pulled over a few miles out of Columbia while proceeding at 68 mph in a 70 mph zone. I found it even stranger that the Deputy should ask me to step out of the car, put my hands over my head, and spread my legs and that he should subject me to some intimate yet manly (stress on the intimate) handling. And I will admit to being quite nonplussed when his search of my left-side jacket pocket – which he had somehow contrived to leave for last – resulted in a small Ziploc™ bag of a fine white powder. Events proceeded rather quickly thereafter. A large, white, unmarked van without rear windows appeared at the roadside with remarkable speed. When I was bundled into it I saw that it contained a remarkable number of sheriff’s deputies. Then one of them uttered the words, “Yep, this is the guy. Treat him like a Haitian,” after which my memory is something of a blur. I awoke some time later underneath a briar bush, feeling rather sore in some quite unusual places, and smelling of several different animals. My car was parked a few yards away. Wearily, I crawled into the driver’s seat, grateful that I would soon be home, yet dreading the cost of cleaning the upholstery. As I fastened my seat belt I looked up to see that I was almost directly underneath a sign that said, “You are now leaving South Carolina. Y’all come back soon.” ----

Bah! I say Cthulu for President. Why choose a lesser evil? Congrats, yadda yadda yadda. Now get back to the coalface.

<blockquote>quote:</font><hr>Originally posted by Gyrene: I might think of bribbing Hakko to be extra clumsy in the gun range if the GM in the Magenta Onion game starts to get too "creative" <hr></blockquote> My trick knee has been especially tricky of late. Who knows what could happen given the recoil of my massive weapon. And to Seanachai, I would remind you that Slappy and I both live in states of the Union that appreciate a man's right to keep and bear weapons of mass destruction. There are parts of North Carolina where one can be prosecuted for failing to carry a loaded MLRS.

Coming back to the MBT thread after a prolonged absence always gives new meaning to the words, "plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose", as well as "so much k-wrap, so little time." I am heartened that Lorak is back, as the waitress down at the Awful House had about lost her one good tooth for frettin' about him. I will note that some people will do anything to see the LOTR in a multiplex with Dolby™ Surround Sound. Still it was well done, Larry, and you deserve the hero's welcome that Mrs. Lorak no doubt provided you. Also heartening was Hiram's news about his sis. Best of luck from here on out. Less heartening is the Gnome's plan to come over to London to sort out Mr. Peng, Y.H., proprietor of the Hunan restaurant of ineffable goodness. I will be in London for a few more days yet, and the thought of being w/in 5 miles of Seanachai for any period of time plays hell with my digestion. "There can be only one," he says, but Mr. Peng, Y.H., being a Buddhist, might disagree with you. Those of you expecting turns from me, which is to say Geier and, if he still cares to, Lorak, can look forward to them sometime late next week. The rest of you can sod off, unless like Andreas you have recently bought me alcohol, in which case do carry on.

One goes away for a few days and in one's absence all heck breaks loose. First, an utterly lame retread of a title for an MBT incarnation. Second, the return of an SSN who thinks he's the Delacroix of French cuisine, but whose culinary expertise doesn't extend beyond "Do you want fries with that?" Finally, the handing out of incomplete titles. I insist that you amend mine to include my rightful claim to be Chief Indicter of Grog Porn™ such title to be granted retroactively and in perpetuity. Now I have to go, because there is some bloody good sea urchin roe available at the fishmongers. Sod off.

<blockquote>quote:</font><hr>Originally posted by Stuka: I was in a movie once myself, mind you I kept my clothes on. It was called "Shark's Paradise" <hr></blockquote> 3.5 Stars of Goodness. I assume,Stuka, that you were using your stage name, Sally Tayler. Strangely enough, Hanns's film credit doesn't show up in IMDB. Maybe Mace knows where to find more info about that sort of fine fayre. In other news, Geier has managed to set fire to himself.

Nothing to see hear. Just keeping the Universe in balance. Move along. Feck!

<blockquote>quote:</font><hr>Originally posted by Mace: Don't mind me, just playing with the fabric of the universe and upsetting one of the cesspoolers <hr></blockquote> Ah, feck! Damn, I've bumped it. Feck!