Seanachai

Umm...Lars is always detained by Customs, and he always gets the body cavity search. He requests it in advance, the way some people contact the airlines in order to get the 'kosher meal' option. But yes, your final statement is correct. No wonder the terrorists are winning.

Dorosh, consider the fact that 'you're arrived in Dalem's bathroom'. Not even the upstairs bathroom. You've 'arrived' in the downstairs bathroom. I've seen them both. Stalin wouldn't have sent people to Dalem's basement bathroom. At this point, Grog Dorosh, I can't imagine that you're doing anything short of contemplating taking your own life. Published in 1993, and here, in 2005, you're being read in Dalem's basement bathroom. I will be there for you, Michael. I don't think it's right that the body be found by a member of the family.

I AM PENG'S FRIEND! Also, Spartacus.

Rest in Peace, Hunter S. What the hell am I saying? Thompson, you twisted monster! I hope that whatever afterlife you're in is as nightmarish as a Fellini film crossed with a Japanese Hentai game! And you'd still be the most terrifying thing in that afterlife. Take care, Dr. Thompson, wherever you are.

You're a fecking poodle. Now be quiet. Christ on a crutch without a handicap parking sticker, but the younger generation goes on like every time they touch themselves, we've got to post breathlessly about the Colossus of Rhodes. Be quiet! Shut the hell up! And stop doing that, or you'll go blind! I know that old people have told every generation for a hundred years that, but in your case, and the way you're going about it, it's actually true.

As I honour the Ladies of the Pool, so do I treat them as equals. We might well give each other offense, where it dwelt merely on the externals, such as the fact that you're a gods benighted Southerner, who wouldn't, perforce, know enough to pour piss out of one dainty piece of her own footwear. But, as a Lady of the 'Pool, I know you to be so complete, replete, and rather pyrotechnically superiour as to simply give the nod to the maunderings of an Olde One of the Pool.

We've talked about this, before, haven't we? You bastard! I'm for bed. While most of you were softly, softly leaking into your underwear, and wondering about why your wife has to use so much bleach to keep it 'white', I was dismissing you. As you should be. A less impressive gang of lackluster whores than you lot cannot be imagined. At least, not by anyone who even touches themselves in a way that does't meirt derision. I give you all a good night.

Irritate me? His, yours, and every Goodaler's existence vexes me in ways that cannot be described without reverting to cursing, anger, and, perhaps...finger puppets. Well spoken. Axe couldn't match me for taunting if he had the whirling ninja blades of hyperbole in one hand, and wit in the other. It's simply not in him. He's not the least intelligent of you Goodalers (frankly, I can't believe most of you avoid suffocation without someone standing beside you shouting 'breathe, breathe'! What most people achieve by autonomic nerve action, I think the Cheery Wafflers can only grasp by banding together and being one large stupid creature...) Never trust in gods, lad. Trust in friendship. Trust in women. Trust in anything but the certainty that comes with divinity. Divinity is for ****e. You may trust in me, if you choose. I, at least, will tell you when I'll screw you over.

Irritate me? His, yours, and every Goodaler's existence vexes me in ways that cannot be described without reverting to cursing, anger, and, perhaps...finger puppets. Well spoken. Axe couldn't match me for taunting if he had the whirling ninja blades of hyperbole in one hand, and wit in the other. It's simply not in him. He's not the least intelligent of you Goodalers (frankly, I can't believe most of you avoid suffocation without someone standing beside you shouting 'breathe, breathe'! What most people achieve by autonomic nerve action, I think the Cheery Wafflers can only grasp by banding together and being one large stupid creature...) Never trust in gods, lad. Trust in friendship. Trust in women. Trust in anything but the certainty that comes with divinity. Divinity is for ****e. You may trust in me, if you choose. I, at least, will tell you when I'll screw you over.

Boo...I can't see you, lad. Take my hand...lead me home...

I’d usually be running his bath about now… so unless he’s gotten himself a new squire he’s probably running one all on his ownsome… oh dear </font>

Boo! Bring me Boo! I shall not sleep until I've heard from my large, thuggish henchman! O the year was 1778 How I wish I was in Sherbrooke now A letter of marque came from the king To the scummiest vessel I've ever seen God damn them all I was told we'd cruise the seas for American gold We'd fire no guns, shed no tears Now I'm a broken man on a Halifax pier, The last of Barrett's Privateers O Elcid Barrett cried the town How I wish I was in Sherbrooke now For twenty brave men all fishermen who Would make for him the Antelope's crew God damn them all I was told we'd cruise the seas for American gold We'd fire no guns, shed no tears Now I'm a broken man on a Halifax pier, The last of Barrett's Privateers The Antelope sloop was a sickening site How I wish I was in Sherbrooke now She'd list to the port and her sails in rags And the cook in the scuppers with the staggers and jags God damn them all I was told we'd cruise the seas for American gold We'd fire no guns, shed no tears Now I'm a broken man on a Halifax pier, The last of Barrett's Privateers On the King's birthday we put to sea How I wish I was in Sherbrooke now Ninety-one days to Montego Bay Pumping like madmen all the way God damn them all I was told we'd cruise the seas for American gold We'd fire no guns, shed no tears Now I'm a broken man on a Halifax pier, The last of Barrett's Privateers On the ninety-sixth day we sailed again How I wish I was in Sherbrooke now When a great big Yankee hove in sight With our cracked four-pounders we made to fight God damn them all I was told we'd cruise the seas for American gold We'd fire no guns, shed no tears Now I'm a broken man on a Halifax pier, The last of Barrett's Privateers The Yankee lay low down with gold How I wish I was in Sherbrooke now She was broad and fat and loose in stays But to catch her took the Antelope two whole days God damn them all I was told we'd cruise the seas for American gold We'd fire no guns, shed no tears Now I'm a broken man on a Halifax pier, The last of Barrett's Privateers . Then at length she stood two cables away How I wish I was in Sherbrooke now Our cracked four-pounders made awful din But with one fat ball the Yank stove us in God damn them all I was told we'd cruise the seas for American gold We'd fire no guns, shed no tears Now I'm a broken man on a Halifax pier, The last of Barrett's Privateers The Antelope shook and pitched on her side How I wish I was in Sherbrooke now Barrett was smashed like a bowl of eggs And the main truck carried off both me legs God damn them all I was told we'd cruise the seas for American gold We'd fire no guns, shed no tears Now I'm a broken man on a Halifax pier, The last of Barrett's Privateers Now here I lay in my twenty-third year How I wish I was in Sherbrooke now It's been six years since we sailed away And I just made Halifax yesterday God damn them all I was told we'd cruise the seas for American gold We'd fire no guns, shed no tears Now I'm a broken man on a Halifax pier, The last of Barrett's Privateers Barrett's Privateers -Stan Rogers.

WHERE IS MY RADLEY?!

Then, to battle! Where the thud of combat (and your intellect), shall echo in the ears of the gods! You've got a very nice thread here, you Goodalers. Very...um....unintelligent. It suits you. The rampant stupidity and ignorance is brought to almost glowing life by your attempts at prose.

Then, to battle! Where the thud of combat (and your intellect), shall echo in the ears of the gods! You've got a very nice thread here, you Goodalers. Very...um....unintelligent. It suits you. The rampant stupidity and ignorance is brought to almost glowing life by your attempts at prose.

It's 'Ponce'. Check our thread, you 'ponce'. Christ on a crutch crushing a beer can on his forehead, it's hard to believe some of you lot don't have to walk around with your privates on display all day because zippers are simply 'too difficult'. I have checked, and having checked, I've seen. The choice of scenarios, QBs, etc, it yours, as the challenged. Send it on, Oh Hound of Goodaler ****e.

The reply of one man to another! Are we not men?! Are we not more than the beasts? I don't expect much from a Southerner, of course... No, if they're here, they have more brains than that. If I wanted a 'simple' henchman, I'd go to St. Paul. Or Georgia.

You buggers ever listened to Adam Astbury? Very nice stuff...

Among other things. </font>

Well, no problem, really. I shall simply post jolly singsong after jolly singsong until our Radley chooses to make an appearance...

What the hell is this? Where the Hell is Boo?! What's the point of a man staying up all night in order to give his large, thuggish henchman new orders, if the brute isn't there? I am filled with resentment.

Boo? Art there, Boo?

And the comet, is coming between Me and the bran, that will make it all clean Out there in the distance Of the Modern Machine Walks St. Boo, and his Ohio machine...

Gods, I hate it almost as much when none of you bastards are on, as I do when you are. How 'bout a melancholy singsong, then, eh? Will there be any bartenders up there in Heaven? Will the pubs never close, will the glass never drain No more D.T.'s and no shakes, and no horrors Very next morning you feel right as rain O God loves a drunk, the lowest of men Like the dogs in the street and the pigs in the pen But a drunk's only trying to get free of his body And soar like an eagle high up there in heaven His shouts and his curses, they are just hymns and praises To kick-start his mind now and then O God loves a drunk, come raise up your glasses, amen Does God really care for your life in the suburbs? A dull little life of dull little things and bring up the babies to be just like Daddy And maybe you'll be there when He gives out the wings But God loves a drunk, although he's a fool When he wets in his pants and he falls off his stool He can't hear the insults and whispers go by him As he leans in the doorway and he sings Sally Racket He can't feel the cold rain beat down on his body And soak through his clothes to the skin O God loves a drunk, come raise up your glasses, amen Will there be any pen-pushers up there in Heaven? Does crawling and wage-slaving win you God's love I pity you worms with your semis and pensions If you think that'll get you to the Kingdom above But God loves a drunk, although he's a clown Oh, you can't help but laugh as he gags and falls down But he don't give a curse for what people think of him He screams at his demons alone in the darkness He's staying alive for just one more pint bottle Won't you throw him few pennies, friend? God loves a drunk, for ever and ever, amen God Loves a Drunk -Richard Thompson

Check out my Challenge in the Peng Challenge Thread to you, you scavenger, and see what I think is special.