Seanachai

Jesus H. Christ on a popsicle stick. Seanachi just posted the Bible. And just like the Bible, I again fell asleep reading it. Just a thought...why don't you send your posts to Berli first and have him edit them for you. It would save us all a lot of money on glasses and contact lenses, and lost time at work due to being up all night trying to read your crap. Kitty </font>

By the way, did you know that some complete piece of ****e stole my fecking car?! I loved that car.

Borrow a hacksaw and cut away the trigger guard. If that's too much trouble, rig something with a piece of coathanger wire, a broom handle, and some duck tape. Need any shells? Michael </font>

But not so cheap that you'll ever be able to afford me. Ah, she knows you well then. Michael </font>

Send a turn or we steal your pants too. </font>

You cheap whore. I called her cell phone. Isn't technology wonderful? She and the amazing Mini-Emma came to my home, and sat with me while I waited for the cops. Then she took me to lunch. And grocery shopping. As we were driving to the grocery store, she was trying to reassure me. She said, 'Hey, this isn't that bad, right'? I said 'Yeah. I need to look on the bright side. I mean, I don't need the car for work, because I'm unemployed!' Then I laughed hysterically. After a short while, she said: "Jesus. You know, even your silver-linings suck."

The story which follows is a 'Contemporary Gnome Adventure'. It is primarily for our mature readers. Please note that while the subject material is rated acceptable for all ages, the article itself replicates actual experiences and is not advised for all readers due to offensive language and certain adult content. Cesspool apologies to BFC for presenting them in their original form. Trill...Trill..! Seanachai Bugger...click...Hello? Berli Heyyy. Seanchai Ah, Master of Vile Darkness! How's it going? Berli Not too bad. I'm gonna kill whatever halfwit bastard is keeping that round-robin email going about that sodding idiot MrSpkr's email change. Seanachai Jesus, isn't that funny? What the hell was MrSpkr thinking when he sent that bugger off? What a maroon! He had three different addresses on the list for Shaw alone! And some of those poor buggers are raving about having played one game against him 2 years ago! Talk about a distribution list set up and maintained by Bobo the Simpleminded! Berli Yeah. Idjit. Seanachai So, what lightens the gnashing of teeth and rending of garments for the Lord of the Pit these days? Berli Just got some incredible 1 to 2400 scale models of British and French ships of the Napoleonic period. Seanachai Wow! Sounds cool. Hey, Berli fella, hate to bring it up, but I have to leave here in about 5 minutes to have lunch with my good friend Jen, and her beautiful and amazing 6 month old girl, The Fair Mini-Emma. Berli Ahh. That the woman I met? With the great dogs, and the husband brews his own beer? Seanachai Yeah. Berli No prob. I'll catch you later. —clic Hmm...okay, lessee...keys, library book to return, PDA...okay. Now, out the back, lock the door, shift the recycling bins back into line on the porch, head out the back porch door, carefully make sure the cheap security door latches... Stands at the top of the back porch steps staring at the four parking spots in back of the apartment building Seanachai **** me! Where's my car?! After phone calls to my landlord and the Minneapolis Impound lot, I began the process of reporting my car stolen. I can only imagine, as the process continued, what each person down the line was making of my repeated comment "It was a piece of ****e! It was a '94 Honda Civic with sea waves in the front hood from where some bastard stood on it at the Winnipeg Folk Festival! There was rust around the wheel wells, and the muffler was going out...again! And the back seat still smelled like cat-piss from the time we drove Peng back to his hotel! But I loved it! I loved it! Why would they do this?! Why would they take my sodding car?!!!!" I was wrenched in a dozen different directions. Rage, anxiety, confusion and horror. All I could think was, "Oh Fecking Great! Now I have to talk to my most favouritest of peoples! Cops, Insurance Agents, and my Neighbours!" Frankly, the cop was very nice. He shuffled in, looked at me, talked with me for a few minutes, and, before taking my statement, he told me: "You know, a few months ago, I took a theft report from this guy. He'd been at a party, and he came out really drunk, and decided it would be smart if he walked home, rather than drive. And the next day, he walked back, and couldn't find his car. He reported it stolen, and a month later, when they declared a Snow Emergency, his car was brought in, towed from the next block over. He'd simply forgotten where he'd parked." I thanked him. I looked deep into my own, Gnomish soul. I knew that my Fecking Car should be parked out back! I had driven both Berli and Peng around in it, with never a moment of uncertainty! I ran out onto the street! I ran up and down both sides of the block! I looked for that which was, quite simply, no longer there. The cop gave me a Case Control Number (CCN). He told me that, in many cases, the cars were recovered. Mind you, they'd been stripped to ****e. But they came home again, like Lassie, limping on three legs. I then called my insurance company. They took my original statement. It was very perfunctory. At one point, the interviewer asked me 'Where did the accident take place'. And I'm telling him: "What accident? I assume they stole it on purpose!", and I hear this tap-tap-tapping, and 'yes sir, just a second until I get to the right screen'. And then they told me that a local adjustor would call me. She did. She was quite nice. Her name was 'Dori'. She spelled it for me. I fell in love with her voice. Mind you, some bastard who's just had his car stolen should at least be treated to listening to some young woman with a really, really nice voice explain that everything you had to say would be recorded. She asked me innumerable questions. She asked me if my car had ever been stolen before. She asked me if I knew of anyone who would want to steal my car. She asked me if I owed money on a loan, or had recently declared Bankruptcy. She asked me any number of questions. Finally, she asked me: Did you steal your own car, or know who has stolen it? I told her: No. I couldn't tell her the truth. Kudos to you, Cabron66. I never saw this coming. When you return the car, to make me look like a fecking idjit to both my insurance company, and the Minneapolis Police Department, I imagine that you'll leave it on a nearby side-street. Make sure to piss the driver's seat, lad. Nothing discredits a stolen car report like it turning up a block away with a urine soaked seat. [ January 16, 2004, 11:08 PM: Message edited by: Seanachai ]

Reads Queen Emma's sig line, and sprays beer far and wide, like an oscillating sprinkler BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH...sputter...HAHAHAHAHAHA! Stupid fecking Goodalers. Talk about pearls cast before swine!

14 days, you gang of half-wit fools. Mark January 28th on your fecking calendars. I want each and every one of you lackwits here on January 28th. I want you to think about your Mums, your Dads, and your family. I want you to show up with something significant to say, be it ever so personally significant, regarding family. And I want you to address it to our Fair Queen Emma, and her Dad. Memorial Day is for all of us. January 28th is for our Queen. Let us make January 28th the Memorial Day of the Peng Challenge Thread. And you lot of raccoon droppings are here for only one purpose. Show our Queen your hearts. Share with us everything that makes Family strong. You have two weeks. Amaze me. [ January 14, 2004, 04:35 AM: Message edited by: Seanachai ]

Bastard. I bet you drink blends, you heathen. </font>

Well, I had a small cask of Madeira... </font>

Be quiet. I'm contemplating the glory of the 5 CDs of music I've been preparing as my Major Opus for Boo Radley. The titles, I'm thinking, are: God, Life, the Devil, the World, and the Jolly Sing-Song. And each song is fitted into it's place.

I weep for the whole, bollocksing lot of you. Feh! Likewise, Bah! I went into a bit of...a decline. Life no longer held it's old 'spice'. There wasn't that touch of cinnamon and Everclear to the day-to-day that I used to so value. I looked at all the years behind, and all the years ahead, and realized that fecking accountants were in charge of Life. The years past were numerous, and the years to come were few, but, in direct contravention of the Statute: 'I'm Old, I Must Be Fecking Wise', the 'Achievements Attained' as opposed to 'Achievements To Come' was up near the fecking roof in the great Balance Beam of Life. And I knew that, despite all the evidence to the contrary: my own state of physical decay, the overwhelming tiredness I felt whenever I had to slog through some post by some complete idjit, and the deep, deep desire to simply lie down and devote my declining years to exciting recipes involving pork and very strange mushrooms, that my task was not yet done. So, I'm back. casts eyes about Place looks like a complete ****hole. Where's our bloody Queen, and the poxy Justicar? Never mind the other Olde Ones. There's not a day in hell that I don't wake up with their last comments in my ears.

Excellent! I have some poor sod who "once played MrSpkr in a tourney" all but begging to be taken off the truly fecking horrendously huge and inclusive email notification list that MrSpkr, in a moment that can only be described by the term: IDIOCY sent to a huge number of people. It makes me proud...or at least, deeply, deeply disturbed, to see how his request is being brutally mistreated by — well, Cesspoolers, for the most part. And as his inbox fills up with the horrible, rising sludge that stinks of emptiness, covering even the sour stench of his own fear and anger, and as each rock pounds home on the cairn of his complacency, his certainty of immunity, I hear the notes of a jolly sing-song! My bet is, that I'll get a postcard, card or letter of true hatred soon from Lord Dragon! Drinks all round!

If I were to tell you the honest to God truth (and I don't, because I actually know this, and, as much as I like you all, you're simply not capable of handling it), I'd have to say that I was a bit surprised when at a mere Midnight, people got up and put their coats on and began to head out. Frankly, people had just gotten to the interesting story telling/confessional stage, at that point. But Lars was with someone far more attractive than any of us, and I think she wanted to go home, and Xyphorus has both children, and a very attractive wife who he probably needed to rush home to make sure they were secure, and Papa Khann...well, okay, he's got nothing, but I think the way he's currently whoring himself for money might require actually being coherent for work on a Sunday, and, when all this great mass of people who you've been hanging out with suddenly all stand up, put on their coats, and begin behaving like tourists who have to make their flight, what can a poor, drunken gnome do? Was I to be left there, the last of all his tribe, aimless, pointless, and confused? Wondering if it was not, in fact, time for me to move on, as well? I mean, to be honest, Dalem, you had the greatest place I've seen in a long time to get horrible in. Guns, swords, alcohol, food, books...the list goes on and on. And so many places for people to simply lose consciousness in. Not like some places I've been. I mean, the sheer total of furniture that looked worthy to wake up on, hung over, and wondering where the hell you were, was...significant. I would have stayed...but I could not stand against the sudden stampede of sheep. Also, you never told me whether you had any old Steely Dan CDs. If you had Royal Scam, or Can't Buy a Thrill, I'd have happily passed out there. And flights of Joe the Cat and Sten the Dog see me to my sleep.

Michael, this is why you will always be Westmoreland raving for body-counts, and why I will always be...the Master. You're a Combat Mission whore, Michael. You'll post anything, to anyone, at any time. You'll exhaust yourself posting as often as possible, to anyone who will listen. Your broad base of knowledge doesn't matter. Your concern for WWII Grogophilia doesn't matter. Your deep concern for CM...doesn't matter. Quite simply, Michael...you'll post to and with anyone. I'd give you even more ****e, but it's exactly the sort of behaviour I'd expect from Pestilence. All is right with the world, Grog Dorosh, and you are where you were always meant to be. You manky, annoying, daft fecking bugger. Tomorrow I imagine I'll respond to 'lameduck' about his horrible requests, because his horrible requests apparently were made in all honesty, and did not seem horrible to him/her/it. But I will sleep better, and more soundly, for having cursed that fool of a Dorosh tonight. And what is wrong, if I may ask, with hating Seanachai? Civilizations could be built upon a hate of that caliber.

Did I tell you that I'm the most wanted man on my Island? Although I am not on my Island. It should be soon. Now that I've found my way to your house, which is actually a fecking excellent place to hang out, I no longer have qualms about going into the horror that is Columbia Heights. What a horrible little place it is. But your house, like a bright, shining beacon of sanctuary, redeems it. Otherwise, I'd say the Dresden approach to urban clearance would be about right.

I'm not stupid, I'm trusting and innocent. Or I was. The visit from you and Peng has scarred me for life.

I did think of it, but we got so busy watching Finns kill tanks with chunks of wood, and smoking cigarettes while they were still partially aflame from FTs, that I never got back to the computer room. Next time I promise to slip away and post some really heinous things under your name. You were actually a surprisingly great host. Next time, though, I say we make an all nighter of it and drink until 3 AM, then take your collection of rapiers out into the backyard and try some serious dueling, while shouting out passages from Dumas. Then it will be a perfect night. Papa Khann looks a little smug sometimes, and I think a few slashes in his shirt and oozing cuts across his ribs will knock some of the mickey out of him. And I believe I left a fair amount of the Laophraig. I swear by the ears of Sten the dog that I will return!

That's what I'm trying to do, moron! Gimme another doughnut!! Kitty </font>

I looked over Jordan And what did I see, Coming to deny me a home? A Texas Lawyer looking down on me Looking to deny me a home. Swing low, sweet chariot A man can't call his soul his own Swing low, sweet chariot A Texas Lawyers bought up the loan. <big>Texas</big>: Think of all the worst aspects of Southern stupidity combined with the broad, arrogant expansive excesses of the American West. With none of the virtues, and all of the failings. Makes you want to kneel down and beg forgiveness from de Santa Anna, doesn't it?

Dorosh, this is a question that must be answered. Perhaps it were best if the World of Combat Mission were swept clean, and all the accumulated weirdness washed away, leaving only the tenacious, the driven, and the obsessed behind to inform a new generation of posters. Who wouldn't relish coming to this game new, for the first time, and, after playing their first few games of the 'Demo', striding out onto the forum to find out 'How the hell mortars work', and 'Best way to use AT guns'? Ah, it was all so fresh and new, then! I remember reading hundreds of posts, just trying to get some insight into the game. And reading hundreds of posts more, trying to sort out who all these 'Posters' were. "What brave new world is this, that has such Posters in it"?! Of course, I soldiered on through 'Running Machine Guns', 'Can We Mod in More Gore?', and 'How Come the SS aren't Portrayed As the Final Phase of Military Achievement?' threads. It was all new, and odd, and informative. I plowed through data on the debate regarding 'penetration formulae as opposed to charts' thread for more posts than mere humans could follow. I was captivated. It was like listening to Musicians debate whether Mozart could truly be appreciated without reverting completely to the use of period instruments, and whether Salieri really intended Mozart's death, or just thought the penetration ability of the early war Sherman was over-represented. But, as Thomas Wolfe said "You cannot go home again". And yet, you must go home again. Grog Dorosh, we must give another generation/iteration/representation of Combat Missioners their chance to find their own...peace. We of the Peng Challenge Thread will always be there for them, once they have made their peace with 'playing the game'. We will give them another path to walk. And the Grogs, tenacious as boll weevils, will always be there to inform them that 'nothing is as good as it should be', and 'it was so much better in the Old Days, before the people who actually play the fecking game pushed in here like a lot of unwashed homeless people to take an interest in it!' For Grogs, of course, the game should exist as a pure work of art. Something that resonates to the the same frequency as the Universe. And the Horsemen, those vicious bastards, will always be there. That's annoying enough. Have you ever considered that the Three Olde Ones of the Peng Challenge Thread, combined with the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypso make up the mystical number Seven? Combine this with the fact that there are Six members of BFC, and you arrive at: Thirteen! I leave it to you, Grog Dorosh, to sort out which one is Judas. Personally, I don't figure the Board is done until there's a jolly sing-song in which a Lady tells us the Board is complete fecking ****e.

Bah! I wave my hand at both you and Boo! As a wee tyke I actually remember watching (and one doesn't forget an ad like this), the TV commercial where the husband lets out a cry of pain, and his wife says 'What's the matter, honey', and he replies 'It's this darn razor! It feels like weasels are ripping my flesh!' Eventually, of course, this gave rise to one of the all-time great album covers/names in human history. One need look no further than this commercial for proof that early man took drugs.

What strategy are you using? 'Mail Order Oriental Bride', or 'Fecund Teenager With No Head For Alcohol'? Although the rights of every human being should be acknowledged, doesn't it seem that sometimes the rights of humanity should be given a nod, and some specific individuals shouldn't be allowed to throw sludge into the gene pool?

Nowhere else but this Board would this topic look less than horrifying. Congratulations on being...er...able to recreate a bit of your family's past.