Seanachai

What a bloody relief! I thought this might be a thread devoted to Australians discussing their 'wedding tackle'...

Bah! I'm the Fifth Horseman. Famine, War, Pestilence, Death and... Chaos! I flap me little wings, and there's a hurricane in Australia!

You like that, do you, Joe? I've got a thousand weird drug stories. Fortunately, I can only remember about a hundred of them at any given time. And those, of course, are only the ones that the Statute of Limitations have run out on...

Grog Dorosh, you annoying pillock. Your picture is making me scroll from side to side. Please resize that photo of you about to devour a wee, innocent babe, so that at least, while filled with horror, I don't have to use the mouse to read future posts.

A line he's oft said to young maids, whose reply was invariably 'don't herniate yourself for almost no return, laddie!'

Who could resist those impish good looks?</font>

One night the Old One and me Mum were supposed to go out for some drinks and general hilarity with friends. I thought it the perfect time to do down a tab of black star. I took it right before we sat down to a light and mellow dinner. But me Ol' Da' came home a bit the worse for drink that night. I made it through dinner, and offered to do the dishes in order to get them out of the house soonest. But me Mum decided, given that he was already tipsy and a bit contrary, that they should stay home instead. So there I am, acid coming on like a house on fire, trying to do the dishes. I kept picking plates up, carrying them into the kitchen, setting them down, staring at them, and then, as often as not, carrying them back into the dining room. Fortunately the Old One was in his own private Idaho, so he wasn't copping to my behaviour, but my Mum, who's usually not all that observant, began giving me strange looks. It took me almost 40 minutes to transfer the dishes for 3 people having a light meal into the dishwasher, and I have a very creditable memory of taking almost 20 minutes to very thoroughly clean out one pan in the sink, the whole while quietly (or maybe not) singing 'I've Been a Wild Rover' under my breath (which may have been, that night, over my head). I had anticipated a frolicsome night of cranking up something like Handel's "Messiah" (especially that bit later on, where they all sing joyfully about how 'He shall smite and break the unbeliever'), Jimi Hendrix, and my revered copy of 'Songs of the Metal Llamas', all the while crawling from window to window of the house with a .12 gauge (with the usual 'firing a few mad bursts of buckshot off the balcony, down the hillside, in order to keep the woodchucks and other weird night mutants in their place), while attempting to find that perfect balance of mixing rum and odd things from the liquor cabinet in order to put the acid into 'just the right intensity'. Instead, I wind up sitting on the couch with me Old One, ripped right straight to the gills, watching a very bad horror movie. After about an hour, even he's looking at me oddly as I start, quiver, and occasionally let out short screams while fake looking monsters devour entirely deserving members of the B movie community. Between the whisky and my off-putting behaviour, he decided to call it a night and left me there to cruise the cable channels (a new and wondrous possibility, in those days), with his blessing. It did lead to a 'first' in our house, though. Just before she herded the Old Man off to bed, my Mom came back into the family room and wished me a good night, and said: 'Maybe you'd like a drink or something, before you go to bed? There's rum in the cabinet.' I smiled happily and said, 'Why, yes, Mother! I think a bedtime cocktail would exactly hit the spot!' Or something like that. I was trying for a sort of PG Wodehouse/Noel Coward sort of effect, but I imagine that my glittering eyes, acid grimace, and spastic movements might have undercut the light-hearted intent. I then proceeded to the kitchen where I filled a glass with ice, took half the ice back out, and then, jerking like a wind-up toy, shambled to the liquor cabinet and filled a highball glass with Meier's rum. She told me: 'Good night, Seanachai! Don't stay up too late!' I spent the rest of the night (a very long night) watching the soft-core porn channel, slurping rum and mumbling and giggling to myself. You see, that was in the 'Olden Days', when we had to know how to make our own fun. Not like nowadays.

Okay, I'm up for the bottle and your embrace, but why do I have to chase all over a bunch of north african muslims and Dalem with SturmSebber first? I mean, talk about kinky...

The Dutch are singing to me! And it's not 'The Nits', either!

Logged. Pin-pointed Port Washington. Send the black helicopters...

Civilization continues it's long crumble...the Aussies have started up another thread...

Maybe it's just the mega-dose of Ibuprofen talking but...gie us a kiss, Justicar mine!

He's got you there, Joe. How 'bout a group hug, everyone?!

Where the hell are the Aussies? The jails must be overflowing in Oz tonight. I haven't seen a single post by any of them. Bugger, we had more Aussies posting Christmas night! Of course, as this night is traditionally given over to drunkenness and boorish, out of control behaviour, it must be like a religious high holy day in Australia... Does the Prime Minister officiate? Perhaps throwing up the first vindaloo, or something?

My question is: Will we see a new, kinder, gentler Justicariate this year? A Justicariate that sees it's role as being a...a 'ministry' to the Peng Challenge Thread? I want to see the Justicar showing up at doors, smiling, and saying 'Hi, I've come to bring you the glad word about the Peng Challenge Thread!' Maybe if we, you know, did up some pamphlets...we could call them 'The PengSchloss', or somefink. I mean, the freaking Justicar spends a huge chunk of every week at airports anyways. Maybe he could, oh, dress distinctively, wear his hair in a mohawk, and, well, reach out to people...

Umm...didn't we make v42Below a Knight, finally? For some exceptional service...wine opening, bath drawing...psychotic service to the Queen? Something like that?

They went north, and abandoned me because I couldn't limp fast enough to keep up. However, I am slapping around an 8 year old in Chicago right now... His father is kicking the snot out of Lars.

Although Berli's pretty much right, Joe. He hasn't really got an 'alter' anything. He more disturbingly and single-mindedly simply what he is than most psychotics...

But Berli! Perhaps Joe meant I'm your 'inner human'...

It's 13 degrees here tonight. 4 degrees with the windchill. That's Fahrenheit. To you Australians, that would be 'So bloody cold your todjers would fall off and crawl away whimpering.'

Don't be ridiculous. Of course it's gout. Where the hell would I get crabs? A seafood restaurant?

Happy New Year, you lot of weeping sores! Frankly, this year had better be a lot better than the last one, or I might get tetchy.

Do you THINK so then laddie? OR I could have just posted as it was and used up ALL my free space for your 8 X 10 ... sheesh. Joe </font>

I've got a picture of Boo in a suit. I keep a bottle of Lavacol by the bed, so that when I wake up from memories of it, screaming in the middle of the night, the quick blast of rubbing alcohol makes the image fade mercifully quickly...

Hmm...honour Boo's attempt to restart the Thread, or post my own, competing restart...