Seanachai

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.

We are not sure that we approve of anything called 'yacinator', which sounds like a character in an Arnold Schwarzenegger movie that does very unpleasant things to Tibetan ruminants. But we are very sure that if this 'yacinator' character continues to post topics like this one, we will hunt him down and chop any number of various dangly bits off him with a scout axe. If we permit subject posts with things like atlctnbtmaga in them, it's only a matter of time before singing nannies and chimney sweeps show up to give everyone the red arse with endless big production song & dance numbers, and I, for one, do not wish to see an all Cheery Waffler musical number. You can see what I'm afraid of, can't you? Axe2121, Dave H, Soddball and all that lot wielding needles and singing while stitching together a ball-gown for Master Goodale? I think I'd rather reach down my own throat and pull my heart out. Yacinator, get a new hobby. Car detailing, or model ship building, or actuarial science, or something. Anything. I love CM as much as the next man, but when I wake up in the morning with certain...urges to get to know my self better, I picture women, not the CM features I want in the next game. Perhaps a solid program of exercise and team sports?

Do you know what? I said I wasn't going to do this. I mean, I let some folks of the 'Pool know things, but I'm fecking fed up. I'm a useless ****ing sack of ****e. Not like my sister, who's attempting to kick the ****e out of Cancer for the 5th time. She had Hodgkins Disease when she was 14. And, when she entered her 30s, she ended up with Breast Cancer, courtesy of the treatments she had to face to thwack the Hodgkins with a very large stick. And since then, by my count, she's had at least two cancers in situ in her body, that have been removed by painful and debilitating surgery. And now, like weasels dancing a lusty tarantella to the rights of Spring, she has Hodgkins again. She's in her second month of Chemo-therapy, and she can't stop throwing-up, to the point where earlier this week they had to give her fluids because she was so dehydrated. She's way cool, though. Really likes Celtic music. Bit too Republican for our Family, but we're trying to reclaim her. Christ forfend that someone with her sense of self and life should simply render unto Spkr's that which was Spkr's. Gotta drive her to her T-Cell (Immune System) shot tomorrow. Man, did she sound weak and buggered tonight. For her Birthday, last week, I bought her an 'Executive Desk Gong' (weird bookstore 'mini-gong' thing that I'm hoping she uses to amuse and annoy her Admin Assistant!), and I burned her a copy of my CD of the Danna brothers 'A Celtic Tale'. Oh, and a card, showing women draped in shifts dancing around in some sort of Victorian pseudo-ritual exclaiming "I'm the Goddess, No, wait, I'm the Goddess, Ladies, Get a clue, I'm the Goddess!" She seemed to get a kick out of it, and told me she loved the CD. So I feel pretty good. But, you know, I can pretty much eat or drink anything I want without throwing up. So I've got that going for me. But you know, life can be really hard for the good people. Not like me. You're all a wonderful group of lads. Even the stupid bastards. Errr....mind you, I'd actually kill any three of you to make my sister feel better. But not more than three. You have to draw the line somewhere, after all...

This just in from the Magical Kingdom the Olde Ones inhabit (that would be that horrible fecking bar right off the horrible fecking Interstate where seriously diseased looking ****eheads stumble around shouting: "Well Goddamn! I agree with MrSpkr!"): I...desire a setup, from Ales Dvorak. I don' know why. Oh, wait, yes I do. I've always smiled over his 'Alice' posts. And I think he should be punished for them. After all, what could be more horrifying than the endless process of waiting for a turn from myself...with all that time on your hands to speculate whether you're so hopelessly awful that Seanachai's about to beat your worthless foreign arse like a gong. Ales, I look for your reply forthwith. You may seek my return by the light of the glowworms clenched, by main force, between the cheeks of your bum. I've always liked you, lad. Don't make me get ugly.

Clearly, I hate Australia with all my being. But if you ever say this, or anything like it again, I will drive to your house and kill you while you're lying in a drunken stupor. And I have many, many ways of finding out when that might be.

You're not on AIM, you coward. I'd give you such a kicking. Damn good brisket, Dalem.

What the hell? What are you going to tell me next, that the dog ate your genitalia? I'm not sure I'm ready for that sort of revelation. Okay, Slappy (you bastard). I'll give you the same terms as last time. We play a game, and I win, and you write a fecking paean to me, you bugger. I'd be more understanding, but I already bought a new computer, and I worked out the whole same computer graphic card issue, you pillock.

That's not a pun, you sodding foreigner. That is, at worst, a play on words. What is it with this 'stikkypixie' creature? It's been here a great deal. Is it a serf, yet? A Squire? Justicar, we need a ruling on this...small dying creature. Does anyone here claim it?

Ah, I see Slapdragon (that ass) is back. But I have to agree with him here. Anyone who'd use the same breath to mention Tull's "Thick as a Brick" and 'Heavy Metal' should probably be clubbed like a 'marked for culling' baby harp seal. It's 'putrid' you half-witted former Sheriff's Deputy, and I'm not buying your emailed explanation about why you aren't one, any longer. Claim injury all you want, we all know that they caught you sitting in the Evidence Room with your fecking pants around your ankles, your nose looking like you'd been bobbing for apples in the powdered-sugar donut box, watching videos of yourself on recovered stolen VCR players reprising your role as the 'bad cop' doing 'interrogations' and strip searches of 16 year old runaways. Anyone else seeing Harvey Keitel tapped to do a remake of one of his films as 'The Bad Sheriff's Deputy'? Slapdragon. How truly good, lad, to see you back! Is there any chance that you'll start up a game and actually play it out this time?! I don't ask for myself, you realize. I ask for future Olde Ones of the Peng Challenge Thread that might agree to a game with you, only to have you wander off looking for a gullible Physical Therapist who wouldn't realize that your 'wounded in the line of duty' injury looked suspiciously similar to that of someone who'd simply been touching himself too fecking much.\ But I forgive you, Slapdragon. After all, the game engine has advanced considerably, and we're both older, and I, at least, am wiser. I think, at this point, you most likely owe me some sort of...hmm...Tribute? Sing my praises, you game dodging weasel.

What's this? I'm an artist, man, not a goddamn Hallmark card writer! I humiliate them both equally, or I shall sit here abusing you until such time as you see fit to see things my way! Now, Joe, you know that, normally, I stand expectantly at your side waiting for the wisdom to pour forth from your lips, equipped with a heavy duty spit rag to tidy up with afterwards, but this is simply not on. They achieved a Draw, Joe, and they are both equally dim and clueless, and as far as annoying goes, they might as well have been separated at birth for all the difference there is between them. So how, Justicar, can I simply mark one out for abuse and belittlement as he so richly deserves, and let the other walk? This would be wrong, Joe. For just as above all Knights there is the Justicar, and above the Justicar, there are the Olde Ones, and above the Olde Ones there are the Moderators, yet above even them, Joe, there is... Well, let us just call it 'Justice'. Do you know why it's called 'Justice', Joe? It's because most people can't spell 'Seanachai' worth a ****e. Now, I will refrain from tagging either Boggs or Boo with a new sig line until this issue has been resolved.

My Lady, a PITY he had a fire extinguisher. Noba. </font>

Just popping in from Dalem's House of Food and Beer,here (although tonight it's more the House of Food and French Wine), to say that we have dined like Princes. Lucullus dines with Lucullus, as it were. Now, we're primarily into the wine. Oh, and laughing about the fate of Boggs. A lot of very good ideas are flying about. Of course, many of them simply aren't possbile by the Rules of the Board, but I'm sure that we can somehow shape them up to serve.

Well that's not so bad! I'll start using it Monday! </font>

Grabbed a chisel and a bowl and mumbled something about running out to get some salt for the brisket...

Jim Boggs dance Jim Boggs sing Jim Boggs cries like anything Dance, Jim Boggs, dance! -American Folk Tune

Jesus Christ, Dalem beat you? I don't know if even with my considerable talents I could add to your sense of humiliation.

If there's any left, yeah. When I hosted the last Map Game a few weeks ago the German commanders and the Umpires hit it pretty hard. -dale </font>

Keep talking like that and I won't even let you hold the Communicator. </font>

Well, well, Jim Boggs. It'd be a shame, Squire, if your precious sense of security was to get messed about, lad. But if you stray out on to the nearby precincts, you'll see as how your arse...or at least, your signature line, belongs to me, lad. Deary, deary me! After your attempts to forestall me, rather than submitting to your fate, as my large, thuggish and oafish minion Boo did, what should become of you? Perhaps your new Signature Line should be written by a committee of the Minnesota Miscreants at Dalem's house tomorrow night? While extremely drunk and full of themselves? How delicious. In the future, Jim, while I honour your attempts to avoid your (inevitable) fate, it'd probably be better to just lie down, and put your neck under the boot of the Master you've already given the verbal handshake. Now, let's imagine. Who's going to have to deal with a more horrible Sig line? You who raged against the dying of the light (please don't imagine that those of us who sit in the Darkness of the Wasteland, waiting for the folk to reach us, necessarily honour those who don't go gently), or Boo, who flopped around for a period like a gaffed Muskie, but then simply lay gasping in resigned horror? Expect your respective Sig lines by Sunday night. Feel free, the both of you, to mock, belittle, and deny your fate. We like it when you cry, bro. [ April 16, 2004, 01:43 AM: Message edited by: Seanachai ]

So, Boggs, do you want to continue to writhe in an interesting way on the hook, or just pull your forelock and call me 'master'? As I said, your signature line is mine. Are you going to cry, Jim? I like it when you cry, bro.

Give me back my broken nights my mirrored room, my secret life it's lonely here, there's no one left to torture Give me absolute control over every living soul And lie beside me, baby, that's an order! Give me crack and anal sex Take the only tree that's left and stuff it up the hole in your culture Give me back the Berlin wall give me Stalin and St Paul I've seen the future, brother: it is murder. Things are going to slide, slide in all directions Won't be nothing Nothing you can measure anymore The blizzard, the blizzard of the world has crossed the threshold and it has overturned the order of the soul When they said REPENT REPENT I wonder what they meant When they said REPENT REPENT I wonder what they meant When they said REPENT REPENT I wonder what they meant. You don't know me from the wind you never will, you never did I'm the little jew who wrote the Bible I've seen the nations rise and fall I've heard their stories, heard them all but love's the only engine of survival Your servant here, he has been told to say it clear, to say it cold: It's over, it ain't going any further And now the wheels of heaven stop you feel the devil's riding crop Get ready for the future: it is murder. Things are going to slide, slide in all directions Won't be nothing Nothing you can measure anymore The blizzard, the blizzard of the world has crossed the threshold and it has overturned the order of the soul When they said REPENT REPENT I wonder what they meant When they said REPENT REPENT I wonder what they meant When they said REPENT REPENT I wonder what they meant. There'll be the breaking of the ancient western code Your private life will suddenly explode There'll be phantoms There'll be fires on the road and the white man dancing You'll see a woman hanging upside down her features covered by her fallen gown and all the lousy little poets coming round tryin' to sound like Charlie Manson and the white man dancin'. Give me back the Berlin wall Give me Stalin and St Paul Give me Christ or give me Hiroshima Destroy another fetus now We don't like children anyhow I've seen the future, baby: it is murder. Things are going to slide, slide in all directions Won't be nothing Nothing you can measure anymore The blizzard, the blizzard of the world has crossed the threshold and it has overturned the order of the soul When they said REPENT REPENT I wonder what they meant When they said REPENT REPENT I wonder what they meant When they said REPENT REPENT I wonder what they meant. 'The Future' -Leonard Cohen

The use of the Star Trek phaser pistol, Joe. Somehow, when you point it at one of your fellows who's just dropped a verbal load of ****e like a water buffalo manuring a paddy, and hear the satisfying 'rrhhhhhhheeeeee' as you pull the trigger, tagging him as a fecking idjit, you feel that all is right with the world. Plus, after 7 or so Rum&Cokes, it makes Dalem laugh like a Republican regarding the concept of public accountability. But I become too political. Mainly, though, I just hate Dalem. In a 'best buddy who is thoroughly despicable but lets me drink his scotch' sort of way. Oh, and has a great house. And Sten the dog is loud, but quite nice. I'm even bringing my copy of Tom Carson's "Gilligan's Wake" over for him to read 'the Skipper's Story', tomorrow night.

R Leete ... that's a pretty stupid name ... fits. Joe </font>

No Scotch for you!

Ah, Spring is here, and it's Musketeers Night at Dalem's. My comments at your den will, like my comments everywhere, be scintillating and perfect for each moment. The phaser is mine and cannot be yielded up. Do you realize how often I need it for Lars? Not to mention yourself...