Seanachai

Petting zoo? Where? </font>

I've always wanted to spend an evening with you, Parabellum, sipping a fine wine, exchanging slow smiles, and, just before the dessert was served, while looking deeply into your eyes, tell you that I've named a dog after you that I subsequently butchered and ate. And I like dogs, Parabellum. Which is more than I can say for you right now, you posturing toad. Do you presume to come in here and tell me that you are, somehow, more afraid of the General Forum than you are of the Peng Challenge Thread? Reappraise your position. All you're going to see on the GF is either people reaching out to the community, whether in brotherhood or fun, or endlessly needy peckerheads affirming the fact that God (or something like him, it may have been Buddha, or Lenin, or maybe Groucho) turned up at a 'Cocktail and Nibbles' party to tell him that his 'Unutterably Lame and Stupid Position On the Topic of the Day' was, in fact, not simply 'Thought Provoking', but so 'Enchanting to the Powers That Ruled the Universe' that it had won him a free ride on the 'Opinionated Arsehole Express'. But, in a response to your obvious, if obscurely European, cry for aid, I've begun the first in a series of: Peng Challenge Thread Sponsored threads whose tone is 'Hey, remember when posting didn't involve demanding that everyone look at your penis before you shuffled off to fit it with special fighting gear that would allow you to dick it out with anyone who might happen to disagree with you?' Parabellum, you daft bugger. Did you post simply to remind us that there was a time in history when people could simply say: 'Hey, that Parabellum bastard. I want to give him a right kicking!' If so, how refreshing.

You do know that you and Bastables have always been my favourite Kiwis, don't you? Patience. Like death, everything comes to those who wait, but Death has a lot easier time running down and disemboweling those who flop about shouting 'Oooh, I'm waiting for me fecking turn, I am'.

Piss off. That said, when are you going to come to my house and whisk me away for a dream night of beers, finger foods, and hearty, manly conversation in which a word that rhymes with 'duck' is used as a form of punctuation? Did you know that my Pirate name is Calico Jack Rackham?

You could use 10 pages of extremely vulgar castigation, not to mention a good five minutes of something that sounds rather like 'castigation' and that used to only be done to people who'd annoyed the Federal Government by being either too criminal, or too mentally slow, so you could qualify in spades no matter which way you were approached. Afterwards, of course, you'd be qualified to be one of the highly placed bureaucrats that de facto ran the Chinese Empire, or an operating system originally developed in it's most basic form by IBM, depending on whether one proceeded on the basis of proper spelling, or Internet 'LOL, dude, don't matter I can spel, you no wot I mean' pronounciation.

I can't be having with trying to get caught up with all this drivel. Go here for a new beginning, even as it was...well, a long time ago. In the Forum the Fools Come and Go, Talking of Challenges to Peng, You Know

I can't be having with trying to get caught up with all this drivel. Go here for a new beginning, even as it was...well, a long time ago. In the Forum the Fools Come and Go, Talking of Challenges to Peng, You Know

I do not think that they will challenge me... I will now, at my great and advanced age, attempt a recitation of the rules. draws a shaky breath and blinks bleary eyes Where is my Boo? If an old man cannot lean upon his large, thuggish and magically half-witted henchman while he reads the rules out to a lot of simpletons, than what's he supposed to lean on? Sod all. Alright, then, gather round, gather round. Not so close, damn you! Who touched my arse? That wasn't an accident! Show some respect, you lot! Now, here at this tumpety-tumpety fecking recitation of the rules...I remember when we first posted some rules...what do you mean, there's no more beer...as I was saying, I remember it very well. Peng wore blue, and Berli was in black, and the Justicar was in feldgrau...and I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the Rose of England in my hair like the Glasgow girls used or shall I wear red yes and how I Challenged him under the Southern Cross and I thought well as well him as another and then I asked him with my post to play yes and then he told me he would and yes to say yes my Evil Fecking Eternal Opponent and first I taunted him yes and mocked him so he could sense how he amused me yes and his response set things going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes. Bugger. Where was I? You lot are chaff. A good breeze would blow you all, and good luck to it for it's lack of discernment. But, be that as it may, here is something very like a set of rules. Amuse us. I haven't been fecking amused in ages. You'd be surprised how much it takes to do that, but actually, not, because you're probably too dim to think it takes more than reciting a few jokes from a current sit-com to have us all slapping our thighs. Hang on, I'm becoming characteristically long-winded. So, be amusing, avoid excessive vulgarity, leave off personal prejudices, and bring to us a sense of cheerful laughter. You are very, very welcome here. Unless you fail to amuse us, and then you're a complete load of fecking bollocks and the gentle patter of moisture you find yourself wiping from your forehead is all the rest of us pissing on you from a considerable height. That height is called 'wit' and 'intelligence'. Try this for practice: Lie down in the gutter outside an extremely busy pub, and recite your favourite poem. If you can stand up dry at 2 AM, you probably belong here. Never forget to honour the Ladies of the 'Pool And never forget, lads, that I'm watching your useless arses... [ May 06, 2004, 12:15 AM: Message edited by: Seanachai ]

Bugger. You've probably forgotten what you were going to say, because you'd decided to rush back and respond to me on the ATLCTNBTMAGASUPERCALAFRAGALISTICEXPIALIDOCIOUS thread. Good on you, lad. It's about time. I mean, after all that harsh language and really super ideas, I'd expect no less than a really brilliant reply!

You bitch. Kneel at my feet, and acknowledge me your master. Ignore the smell of dying crustaceans and rotting seaweed that otherwise permeates this shallow, silly, and useless place. Normally, one doesn't need to come to some sort of vulgar tide-pool of incompetence to meet a women of your quality. How 'bout a game, then, Kitty-kins? Jesus! What's that smell?! How many Goodaler's have curled up and died here, then, eh?

It's the ÜberGnome!!!!! Persephone </font>

It's the ÜberGnome!!!!! Persephone </font>

Now, Michael, we don't know that he's that fecking stupid. Although I can't help but notice that he hasn't had the hair to respond to me...after saying '**** you, seanachai'. Now, I've been told the same by many people, and I've often had to acknowledge the point and the justice of what they have to say. But what I'm seeing from this 'yacinator' is a massive lack of 'balls'. I mean, his last remark to me is '**** you seanachai'. And I was simply doing my usual bit of dancing about and juggling concepts of humour. And I get his...well, I think I can best characterize it as 'abusive' response. Yacinator! Where are you, my little lad? I haven't seen a post from you since you told me to '**** off'. Are you so weak, useless, and stupid that a simple 'humourous' post from me is sufficient to make you cower and go off and lick yourself rather than post again in response? I don't know....I think that endless discussion of what should be in the next engine is interesting...but I think that anyone who begins multiple threads about it shouldn't be such a fecking arrogant child that anyone responding without bowing and scraping shouldn't be subjected to mindless abuse. Hey, yacinator. Let's make peace, eh? How 'bout you tell me that I'm an annoying bugger, but you acknowledge my clownish sense of how fecking self-important some posters can become in their endless posts about how they know what the game should be, and I acknowledge how those posters can come up with some brilliant ideas?

Shush! I like you puddles of dingo piss to feel like you're doing well in the world. For you are the most awful of my children. Every response from an Australian is like a prayer to the Brewer's Art. No matter how fecking stupid it might be, which is, almost as a given, the very basis of every Australian response. Ssshhhhh. I'm going to bed now. I like you lot a whole lot.

Shush! I like you puddles of dingo piss to feel like you're doing well in the world. For you are the most awful of my children. Every response from an Australian is like a prayer to the Brewer's Art. No matter how fecking stupid it might be, which is, almost as a given, the very basis of every Australian response. Ssshhhhh. I'm going to bed now. I like you lot a whole lot.

Good. The fecking Australians still acknowledge that I'm here. All is right with the world.

Good. The fecking Australians still acknowledge that I'm here. All is right with the world.

And who wouldn't?! But, do you know, I tend to question here, or there, as the mood takes me... And I have this Ideal...let us call it 'Annoyance'. It's that moment when I ask someone who posts constantly about whatever drives them (and this, from all the evidence, can be something on the level of 'I eat babies in pursuit of my CM requirements') what it is that they want. Yacinator, my dear young fellow. Everything you may have to say, everything you may want, everything you may demand...well, it still has to pass by the laughter of people like me. You need to get over yourself as a spokesman. That's why I'm going to keep this thread on top, until you acknowledge that you're neither the alpha nor the omega of the CM forum. I know that I'm an idjit, lad.. But, really. '**** u seanachai'? Get a fecking grip.Why should anyone take you seriously with a come-back like that?

In the empty lot where the ladies play blindman's bluff with the key chain And the all-night girls they whisper of escapades out on the "D" train We can hear the night watchman click his flashlight Ask himself if it's him or them that's really insane Louise, she's all right, she's just near She's delicate and seems like the mirror But she just makes it all too concise and too clear That Johanna's not here The ghost of 'lectricity howls in the bones of her face Where these visions of Johanna have now taken my place Art there? Does anyone yet acknowledge this Olde One? Where is Boo? Where is my large, thuggish henchman?

In the empty lot where the ladies play blindman's bluff with the key chain And the all-night girls they whisper of escapades out on the "D" train We can hear the night watchman click his flashlight Ask himself if it's him or them that's really insane Louise, she's all right, she's just near She's delicate and seems like the mirror But she just makes it all too concise and too clear That Johanna's not here The ghost of 'lectricity howls in the bones of her face Where these visions of Johanna have now taken my place Art there? Does anyone yet acknowledge this Olde One? Where is Boo? Where is my large, thuggish henchman?

And God bless all the little Wafflers lost at sea...

Ah! Garden fresh hate! Rather bland, of course, and without a lot of character...but Hate, nevertheless. Still...is this the sort of Hate one can build upon? I mean, there's almost no fiber content. This is not the sort of Hate that would keep one regular. Yacinator, while coming up with ever more interesting, complex, and, indeed, Baroque suggestions for Combat Mission, try and flesh out your Hate a little more. I mean, that was piss poor Hate, lad. Oh, refreshing in its way, I suppose, but...dull. I mean, if you can picture the Next Engine with flying monkeys playing the organ as the sound backdrop while each individual cow wanders across a field relieving itself with the dung splashing just so on the hand sculpted terrain tiles before an on board indirect fire artillery strike hits, with visuals through the azimuth finders of the individual Fire Control Officers, then surely you can come up with something more imaginative than: "**** u seanachai". I mean, you could at least actually write out 'you', and you could capitalize my name. I mean, if you would even make that much effort, I would be happy to crouch at your feet, like Lear's Fool, and instruct you in the ways of having a sense of humour. Merry, Nuncle, why is an arrogant man angry with a fun house mirror?

Hiram, I thank you for reminding me that misery is never any one person's lot, because it reminds me that joy isn't in only a few hands, either. I'm sorry for your sister, and your family, and what you all are going through. And I thank everyone else (you know who you are) who've shared with me your own stories of tragedy and triumph. I've been reminded that many people suffer, and some of them irrevocably so. We still, in our family, have a great deal of hope. It's hard to watch someone you love be horribly miserable for weeks on end, but we still have our fingers crossed for remission. My heart goes out now, as it always should have, to those whose suffering hasn't even the whisper of a happy ending. Roight! Spring is here in Minnesota. Seems a bit early. I'm taking it as a sign.

Hiram, I thank you for reminding me that misery is never any one person's lot, because it reminds me that joy isn't in only a few hands, either. I'm sorry for your sister, and your family, and what you all are going through. And I thank everyone else (you know who you are) who've shared with me your own stories of tragedy and triumph. I've been reminded that many people suffer, and some of them irrevocably so. We still, in our family, have a great deal of hope. It's hard to watch someone you love be horribly miserable for weeks on end, but we still have our fingers crossed for remission. My heart goes out now, as it always should have, to those whose suffering hasn't even the whisper of a happy ending. Roight! Spring is here in Minnesota. Seems a bit early. I'm taking it as a sign.

Such a lovely outpouring of support. I was moved, seriously, I was. Of course, I backed out and re-entered to make sure which fecking thread I was in. I mean, I might have been so bagged that I was originally posting in the 'Super Death Monkey Anime Hugs and Support' thread on the GF. After all, ****e happens. But it was, in fact, my own dear Cesspool. Remember Minnesota Joe, from the scrofulous community of Mankato, who bequeathed to us our title? I hope wherever he is right now, he's drunk as a lord, and not in jail. You're a great bunch of human beings. Probably the finest people on this planet, which means that the Apocalypso is long overdue. Lately, whenever I feel blue, or down, or just the least bit despondent, I ask myself: WWBD? Or, in other words, 'What Would Berlichtigen Do?" The answer humbled me. Because, whereas one would normally think that it would be 'Rage Against and Defy God While Standing On the Least Flaming Bit of Hell', or 'Reap Souls Like the Harvester of Doom While Damning Humanity', it turns out to be 'Send the Gnome a Really Good Pot a Feu Recipe While Complaining That You're Simply Not in the Position To Kick Him in the Fork Often Enough'. I don't know why, but I took great comfort in that. My sister and I had a good day, yesterday. Or rather, I had a really good day seeing my sister. Her day sucked. We went to the Olive Garden for lunch before her T-cell shot. Personally, I don't care for the Olive Garden that much, as most of their entrees seem like pressed board pasta covered with a red sauce that should have been laid to rest in an anonymous grave. But she wanted to go there because she wanted their spaghetti, and believe me, there's not that many places to go in Burnsville, Minnesota, for spaghetti that isn't complete ****e. She told me 'Most of the time, lately, I'm less into the way food tastes than I am it's consistency'. I remember (from the last time she had Chemo-therapy), that she told me that some tastes and smells made her immediately sick. I was intrigued by the realization that the 'consistency' of food was playing a factor, until it occurred to me that what she was concerned about was how less annoying it might be when it came back up. We finished lunch. My Cannelloni was rather blah, as I expected it to be, but the Zuppa Toscana that began the meal was first rate. The 'breadstick' dinner roll I allowed myself was like eating a wonderfully buttered sponge. My sister paid the bill, as she always does (because she's a hard working, driven, and family loving over-achiever, and I'm her brother, the guy you already know). And then she became a bit quiet, asked me to watch her purse, and went into the ladies room and ralphed up her entire lunch. We discussed how good my soup was while I drove her to get her shot. Oh, and we listened to Chris Smither's new album "Train Home". It's a damn good album. Gotta love the song 'Lola' Lookin' for my Lola what if I'd a told ya She don't even know She hurts me so She says, I don't hate ya', It aint' that big a deal You know, you don't even figure in the way I feel We laughed about the song, and I walked her up to the 'Treatment' clinic. This is a very odd place. You walk into the (linoleum floored) 'treatment' area, and you're confronted with a a wonderful panorama of large windows that let in a huge amount of filtered sunlight. After a minute of thought, you realize it's filtered because bright, 'direct' sunlight is probably a bit harsh for people undergoing induced nausea through selective poisoning. Along the long wall and the 'L' of the shorter wall, there are a series of Pepto-Bismal colored chairs that are a cross between a barca-lounger and some sort of hospital fixture. It looks like a kind of beautician shop for the seriously ill. But everyone is very nice. Everything is very...normal. There are a couple of other people sitting, when we came in, reading magazines, with an IV stand next to them and a tube running into their chest. And my sis is only there for a quick shot to boost her severely depressed immune system, but they talk to her, and they realize that she hasn't kept anything down for the last two days, and that she's dehydrated, so they hook her up with a glucose bag and a bag of stronger anti-nauseant than she can take orally (and believe me, she has them all). So we spend two hours playing Monopoly on her PDA, passing the damn thing back and forth to take turns, with her patiently explaining to me how I can do this, or that, while a bag of fluid slowly drips into the installed port in her chest. You know, you don't know how much you admire a person's sang-froid until you see a Nurse swab their upper chest with like half a dozen wipes before running a needle into it to give them the medical equivalent of a burger. And she's slaughtering me. I mean, she's kicking my arse up one side and down the other, and I'm seriously hating Monopoly. And we're talking about how she doesn't want to go on with the Chemo anymore, because she just can't take it anymore. But how my Brother-in-law, her husband, that wee Brit bastard, is way clever, and he's telling her "Honey, just do two more sessions, until they do the scan to see if the cancer is receding. If it's not, then you can give it up." And my sister is telling me how proud she is of her husband for being that sly. And I wonder, hell, how can I be clever enough to encourage my sister to suffer enough for the chance to live? And I realize, I don't know how to be that amusing. Or positive. Or spiritual. Or whatever it takes. But that I think she'll hang in another few treatments. I'd like to be a lot more amusing, or reassuring, or whatever. I mean, I know that she knows I love her, but...hell. My pride says that I should be so fecking amazingly amusing that she should continue to cling to life through another load of pain just to see how I might amuse her in the weeks to come... Man, that's hubris. It's my only real talent. That's my contribution to keeping her trying, of course. My sister's known me all her damn life. She knows that I'm a fecking clown, and she knows how important she is to me, and that I can't stand an audience checking out on me. I'm working on using my sense of humour into guilting her into continuing to try to stay alive. So, about 15 minutes before her IV runs out, her PDA flashes me the message 'Low Battery'. So I tell her, Kat, sorry, but you've got a low battery warning here. And she says, 'Damn, that's the end of the game'. And as she puts her PDA away, she smiles at me and tells me, 'Brother mine, when I finish playing this game for you, you are going to lose, and you're going to lose horribly.' And I realized that the Peng Challenge Thread was a part of everything that's ever made me who I am. And that who I am is what I've brought to the Peng Challenge Thread. And that my sis is a Peng Challenger. You're a fine lot of useless bums. Now piss off, a bit.