Seanachai

I hate Ales Dvorak. sniffle Oh, Ales, where did we go right? From: A Fellow Mac User

Others await our hatred, but thou, Dalem art free. You belong to Peng. Try to wear something frilly, yet leather. He's not a well man, after all. By all the gods, I enjoy Hatred. I enjoy it, of course, in its proper place. I Hate every single one of you halfwits in the same measure, and in the same way, that I love my Family. If anyone who comes in here doesn't wish to Hate people in the same way, and with the same sense of appreciation, that they love their Family, they should simply bugger off. I remember late Friday night. I started listening to sad, Celtic music. The same music that I listened to a lot when my Sister died in September. Christ, the tears were running down my silly, chubby face. And do you know what stiffened my spine, and dried the tears on my face? It was the absolute Hatred I feel for all you lot. So I can't be having with people coming in here, and randomly hating people for stupid ****e. Hate like you love. With all your heart, a right good will, and a certain amount of reverence. Unless you want to hate Politicians. You can hate them big-time, with shotguns in your heart. But people? Hate them like people.

I do NOT have a pouch. </font>

Them's fighting words boyo. </font>

I think you are mistaken... I don't think Dorosh really wants to get his brain sucked out with a drinking straw. </font>

Of course, that's the Australian solution for everything from the weather to nuclear war...

30º Fahrenheit? Pansies. We don't bother with gloves and hats here when it gets that warm in winter. It's also clear to me that the Celsius scale was invented for use by people who don't need to worry about the temperature all that freaking much.

It's a base challenge implying an instinctively objectionable dare. Pick the wrong guy and of course it hits a flat note though. </font>

Bah! By the weekend it's supposed to be -20 Fahrenheit here. I believe that's something like -28 Celsius for you hot house plants living in Oz. There's not a one of you that would survive a trip from the car to the pub in Minnesota. I'd like to round you scunners all up and dump you in a field near Canon Falls and see how many of you could make your way far enough to live. Does it ever even hit 0 Celsius in that picture frame for Alice Rock that you buggers call a continent?

Damn, nothing but empty bottles. That woman is a sponge, I tell you. Tipsy, she says. Like a Scott is ever anything but. </font>

What's to know? Everyone hates you. If we're simply looking for people who hate you, we can start piling up phone books from around the world. Yes, yes, your later gibbering to the contrary, you know that you long for my wisdom. Now, the first 'wrong step' here was your appearing to insult him, while actually agreeing with him, but I like to think you're 'crazy like a wolverine', rather than simply daft. Your apparent 'agreement' with him, which he chose to take as an insult, is good. It would have been far better, of course, to have gotten him to insult, abuse and belittle you, as it would give you the moral high-ground from which to continue to taunt and seduce him into a truly raging hatred. But, we can work with this. It is important now to move into the 'never acknowledged, but inevitable' stage: Stalking him. Use the 'view recent posts' button to find out where he's posting, and what he's saying. Try to either: Come up with a counter post that belittles what he has to say in a gentlemanly way (remember to keep at this; don't get lazy), or agree with him in such a way as to still mock and patronize his position. Remember, Dorosh, that agreement, if properly delivered, can be the sincerest form of irritating the ****e oout of someone. Haha, yes, quite droll. Doesn't change the fact that there is no one on this Board that understands the Human Condition known as 'Hatred', the way I do, and all your posturing doesn't change the fact that if acquiring 'Hatred' was a Western, I'd be John Wayne, and you'd be some unpleasant cross between Robert Mitchum and Dean Martin. We all love your little jokes. Now attend. Frankly, it's starting to look like you're made for each other. I mean, you dislike each other for saying the same thing in different ways. Seems to me like he came into the whole discussion already pretty much pre-disposed to think you a horrible little git (as all right thinking folk do, but he did so with a willingness to indicate he thought you were a horrible little git, despite the fact that you say 'tomatoes', and he says 'tomatoes'). Don't let him wander around by himself. As I've said, show up at all the same threads, and respond to him. Don't miss a chance to counter-respond to him as soon as he shows up to tell the world that you'd be better off drowned in your own urine. You always do this, and it makes me despair of you. It's important that you not let him know how important his responses are to you. For once in your tawdry, hate-driven little grogish life, play it cool! Remember, in all forms of attraction/hatred, the surest aphrodisiac is 'self-confidence'. How else to explain the fact that I'm an unprepossessing, short, gnomish figure of general hilarity, and I've had more women than you'll ever know, even should you live to a ripe old age?

Ah! I'm the one in the tights. Berli's the bugger in a tux. He can act, he just won't dance. But he will sing. Seen and heard him do it. I tell ya', lass. It's another world in here.

Who've you got, woman?

Awah an bile yer heed? </font>

Ah, what was it Shakespeare said? Some are born Scottish, some achieve Scottish, and some have Scottish...Here, you! Ah'm talkin' to you, Jimmy! I see you, you barstid! You scunner! How'd you like a Glasgow kiss, you windae licker?! Hae' a face full o' head, eh, you tedjious awful feck! Ahem. And unto some, Scottish is thrust upon...don' you gie me that look you tourist! I'll gie you sich a kickin'!

Oh, delicious! Here's the Scottish Babe, doin' the thing... How 'bout a song for a much Smaller Emma, eh? Let me dive into a river of songs Let them rest easy While we right the wrongs of the world Let me hear all the notes played on the scale That were sung long ago In the rain while we waited to dance Let them sing when you play those strings Like the little one dancing And all that romancing Won't you let them sing Hear the words scanning the length of the line Why don't we sing them With hope in our hearts one more time Carry me down to that river of tunes Carry on dancing With all the grace that you can Let them sing when you play those strings Like the little one dancing And all that romancing Won't you let them sing No one quite knows where the music comes from No one can answer the questions From those far away Everyone knows what their soul holds within Everyone dances a little To tunes that are played Let them sing when you play those strings Like the little one dancing And all that romancing Won't you let them sing Let Them Sing -Wolfstone

Oh, lad. You've not seen fire until you've seen a pine log bonfire on the shore on an island up north. We get the wee drunk ones to 'leap through the fire'. After we roll them in a Hudson Bay blanket, we give them a shot of single malt. Eventually, their hair grows back. And while they're sitting there, all over taken with wonder at the beauty of the north country, sipping their beer, and their whisky, they can watch the Northern Lights. It's worth the scars, laddie. It makes everything else seem... Elsewhere.

I'd take that fecking wee Scunner Mace there, as well, but he's all the way over there in Oz. Miserable bugger. Macey, you arse! You ever come here, I'll take you to my family's place up North. No problem, eh?

I would take you North, to my Family's lake place, a cabin on an island, 9 miles from the nearest road by boat, in a beautiful and remote part of Lake of the Woods. But you're a big, big fecking idjit. Oh, what the hell. Let's go up there next summer. Never found a better place to drink rum and whisky at.

Here's a post by The Bardian Mastermind (Page 3 of The Original MBT): That's four and a half years ago. He might be learning, the only question is what, exactly? </font>

What the ****?! I sign on to this damn board night after night. I read the egregious droppings of you gang of flightless halfwits over and over again, I post even while I'm coughing my own, rotting lungs out, and then sit here, night after night, waiting for some sign that I'm getting through, like I'm actually reaching someone, as though my goddamn posts were being received by actual humans, rather than some aimless signal shot into fecking space to be eventually processed by some Alien version of the Seti@Home Project, and now, in the space of the last fecking hour or so, I see you all posting like a pack of stoats that were being carried in the same pocket as the methedrine? I hate you bastards. Night after night, I go to bed wondering where you all are. And now you're here. What a bunch of Very small rodents known for their tendency to lick each others bottoms as a prelude to mating.

More rightly to have said: "In the illustrated words of our immoral Dalem', that putting everything on a footing that made sense, don't you see. Which moves me to this: The Song of the Dalem The night was old the moon was pale I fell into a sort of dream the air was cold I drank some ale Afar, I heard a mongoose scream And then before my eyes arose A being from the depths of hell who murdered verse, and mangled prose A worthless fool, an empty shell His mouth gaped wide He gibbered long On any topic came upon All reason died While he pushed on He whored like any neo-con And when he reaches out to you you'll dream of hell, and wish you'd died All hours of life you'll quickly rue When you've heard Dalem versify And so at last The monster stands A megalith of solid sick You'll stand aghast Throw up your hands At what a useless, vulgar– One, two, three, twirl! Everybody folkdance!

Don't encourage him, Dessert Fox. He's damn near insufferable as it is...

I don't think the child is the only fearful one. Can you imagine? Dorosh shows up at your house, wearing fatigues: "Hi! I'm here to hold your child!" "Who the hell are you?!" Thrusts chest forward, with name over the pocket. "I'm Grog Dorosh! Now, let me hold your child..." "I'm calling the police!" "But I'm here to give it my blessing, and to frighten it into being good and productive all its days!" "Hello! There's a madman in a military uniform, and he's grabbed my child! Now he's staring deep into its eyes! Please, please send a SWAT team!" "There, there, little one! Who's a good baby then, eh?" sounds of approaching sirens...

Iron bars? Cobwebs? Michael </font>