Seanachai

We need more to work with. How do you want him prepared?

Yes. Goddess be my witness, I'm being given the notice that my goddamn post is 'too short'. What the hell does that mean?

You post where Berli and Peng post, and you raise an eyebrow when the spell check suggests 'Sancho' when my name comes up? Hey, boss! This neo-con whore wants to talk to you! I told him you got standards, but he says he belongs here, you know? I remember him, he was stupid a lot, but I remember him. Stupid, most of the time. But I remember him. Seanachai waits for a response Lawyer boy, Satan says he doesn't like you, and the Cisco Kid doesn't want to talk to you, and you need to buy me some wine, eh, if we're going to talk some more. So, you gonna buy me some wine, or just talk big like you're buying, without putting something down on the bar? I notice you're making fun of my donkey, and mock how I'm all raggedy, and have your eyes fixed on the fact that I'm just a poor, tattered beggar who posts here, eh? Shine your shoes, lawyer, sir? You got some gardening to do? Maybe some roof work, last hailstorm, maybe do some remodeling, no permit? Yeah, boyo. I'm Sancho. I know where the Windmills are. I know what loyalty means. And I know where laughter lies.

There was a bottle of champagne in the fridge? You...utter bastard. Tequila is for the young and stupid, vodka is for the weak or Slavic, and I did drink the rum. Don't you pay any goddamn attention at all? But that you let me leave your house the other night, without giving me the champagne... mind you, I drank the hell out of the wine, and I was seriously having trouble breathing... but Lars. You have earned my displeasure. I will offset that with the fact that you were a great host. But I will then combine it with the fact that you would not ally with me to destroy Papa Khann, and that, in fact, I spent the last 4 hours of the game completely fecking gelded, reduced to a bloody cipher in the game, and that even though I turned against Dalem at the end to try and cast the game into your lap, and you never told me there was champagne... Well, lad. It makes me sad.

All I ask...all I ask. Sometimes...sometimes, it seems too much. Too much. Sometimes, I wonder. Sometimes, Joe...

Shaw, you will immediately acknowledge that I am an Olde One of the Peng Challenge Thread. Simple as that.

I SO regret every good thing I said about you in my mistaken postings in the previous thread, you bastard. I will destroy you. See if I don't.

Where the hell is Berli? Where the hell is Peng? Why am I sitting in front of this fire, alone?! Alone, with f*cking pissants as my peers?!

You know nothing. Nothing, goddamn it. Joe Shaw never needs to be scraped up off the bathroom floor. He is one of Nature's Noblemen. Joe Shaw is the sunlit opponent of my soul. He is not...Me. He will never be...Me. He will never amount to...Me. He will always be Joe Shaw. And I will be...Me. And you will not ever make the mistake of mocking Joe Shaw for being...Me. And as for Me? Give me your address, lad. I'll need something to do, when the hammer comes down...

Aussie Lad: I am Everywhere. You know that I'm nowhere. But sometimes you have to post something to let everyone know I'm a fool. And sometimes, you wonder what I might post in reply. And sometimes, you post something to let me know that you don't care what I post. Sometimes, you post hoping that I'll post something in reply. Sometimes, you post something just to say that sometimes I post. Sometimes, you post wondering where I am. Sometimes you post simply to put me down. But you post, and I am always there. You post to hear from me. I could insist on sacrifices, and the smell of them rising on to heaven. I could make a point of whether the lamb bones were properly wrapped, and whether the wine was good enough to offer to Seanachai, but not so good as to waste it by pouring it out in a libation. In other words, Stuka, how you been? Send me incense. Send me music. Music gets my attention more than most stuff.

I have always enjoyed the participation of Ales Dvorak. I have not always understood it, but enjoyment does not go hand in hand without understanding. Some things simply 'are'.

You know, if seems like just moments ago that I was waking up, and going 'Why the hell am I awake?', and that was at 5 am. And now, it's damn near 12 hours later. How they've flown. I've been posting here for hours, and listening to music, and watching the Firefly pilot, and thinking about you lot. And do you know what? Leonard Cohen is playing Minneapolis in May. So, before he and I die, I'll get to hear him live again. So, this thought then, that is always in my heart when I post here: If it be your will That I speak no more And my voice be still As it was before I will speak no more I shall abide until I am spoken for If it be your will If it be your will That a voice be true From this broken hill I will sing to you From this broken hill All your praises they shall ring If it be your will To let me sing From this broken hill All your praises they shall ring If it be your will To let me sing If it be your will If there is a choice Let the rivers fill Let the hills rejoice Let your mercy spill On all these burning hearts in hell If it be your will To make us well And draw us near And bind us tight All your children here In their rags of light In our rags of light All dressed to kill And end this night If it be your will If it be your will. 'If It Be Your Will' -Leonard Cohen

You say I took the name in vain I don't even know the name But if I did, well really, what's it to you? There's a blaze of light In every word It doesn't matter which you heard The holy or the broken Hallelujah -Leonard Cohen

Words! WORDS! WHERE IS MY PYRE? WHERE IS MY BURNING LONG BOAT?! WHERE IS MY BLOODY WAKE?!!! HOW MUCH LONGER AM I GOING TO HAVE TO BE CONSCIOUS UNTIL YOU SWINE DO WHAT I WANT? I KNOW WHERE YOU BASTARDS LIVE!

You better have hoses and extinguishers on hand, lad. Because when I begin to burn, I will take whole landscapes with me! Between the alcohol, and the fat, I am a veritable firestorm. I AM the Wicker Man, you sod. You should put your sacrifices, your puny prayers, curses and fears inside me, and light me up! C'mon, Lurkur! Shuffle forward with your offerings!

Sigh, well, we're near the end of our broadcasting day. Soon, Joe Shaw will be rising over the landscape like an Old Testament Prophet with terminal baboon's arse. And Boo will dance about a bit, and sing, and pick watermelon seeds out of his ear... And Stuka will light up a cigar, with shaking, drunken hands, and contemplate, as he does every night, sending me a picture of his wife naked. And, as he does every night, he will tell himself: No, no! Because he can't remember how to attach the file. And Dalem will call me at midnight, and tell me that America is going to hell. And Berli will call me...at some strange arsed time that pretty much defies analysis; that is, at least, I haven't been able to predict it, despite setting up an Excel spreadsheet logging his fecking calls, with an eye to trying to figure out when the bastard might suddenly pop up and go 'Heh.' And ships will rock at their moorings. And the wind will sigh through the boughs of the trees. And children will sigh, and shift in their sleep, and dream the dream that Three Olde Ones are sitting in a landscape of shadow and emptiness, lit only by the flicker of firelight. This morning, I called my friend Jen, and she put me on the speaker phone, and said 'Emma, say hello to Grandma Steve!', and she did, and told me all about how horrible her double-ear infection was, that was so painful, it made her cry. And then her Mom said, 'Nora, say hello to Grandma Steve!' And there was this long silence, on the other end of the speaker. And after a while, a small voice said: 'Where?' So I spoke loudly into the phone 'Hello, Nora! I'm here, on the phone!' And, after a decent interval to take that in, I hear a small, two and a half year old voice say 'Are you coming over tonight?' I cannot die, just yet. Despite the pains, despite the various illnesses. Because, as long as there are small children that ask me to come over and play, I cannot die. I am kept alive by expectation. I am kept alive by the belief that there will be songs, and games, and wonder. Just like with you lot. Except most of you are horrible. But there will be songs, and games, and wonder. Also, pepper spray and tasers. Most of you bastards need a good whipping.

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Look at that! It's 2 AM and I'm still awake! Ummm.... Just a second... it's 2 PM. And I am, in fact, still awake. Of course, last time I checked, it was 1 AM. Oh, well. At least I'm still drunk...

BOO! BOOOOO! Help the Puddle arrange my Wake, Godsdammit! I want a wake!

Feck that, you sod. WHERE'S MY WAKE?! Do you think I've been drinking here all morning, and that I wouldn't notice that you'd skulked back without any word of my Wake? You bastard. Fast up with it!

I'm not really bad, Michael. In fact, I'm fecking horrible. Now, I could stumble around, trying to explain the fact that for the last year I've been deeply involved with issues, that I've been confused about life, that I've been a less than good correspondent because things have happened, but that wouldn't really be the answer, would it? No, the truth is, I'm a miserable bastard. When I fail in my duty as a correspondent, I just hunker down with a bottle and hope that you bastards will die while I'm singing off-key in the bathroom. I figured you'd be first. But you hang on, and on, apparently goddamn indestructible, so I've given up waiting for you to die, although I have great hopes about most of the rest of them. I figure Stuka's going to kack within 18 months. He's married now, and previously the need to disseminate his seed as widely (and uselessly) as possible was the only thing keeping him alive. Mace keeps me guessing. Every time I think he's dead, he shows up with a post. For me? Emrys, my downy little sheep, I'm in pain. If you outlive me, I will be SO fecking pissed off...

I dunno. Is that spongy waste matter trickling down your face your brain? As for your local law enforcement, you go right ahead, lad. You tell them that you've found a whole nest of spies, and terrorists, and really bad guys, eh?! Now, you've made the 'maybe it's coded messages from Al-Queda' joke. How droll. It's important for a boy your age to be healthy. So, turn your head and cough.

I am Seanachai, and I approve this message... Wake me, you Howler Monkeys of Doom! It's Fat Tuesday! Let the process begin! During Lent, let abuse of me be your daily bread, your bitter greens, your meatless Fridays! And, weeks from now, when the groundhogs roll away the rock from the mouth of my cave-- Seanachai, eléison!

I can do it. Convince the other two halfwits. Papa Khann's in love, but his Sweetheart was in town this weekend, so he'll just be sitting around moping about the fact that she's returned to the Lotus Eater Land this weekend, so he should be able to make it. See what Dalem's doing. Email works with him, for the most part. Call Papa on his cell. Son of a bitch is totally useless, when it comes to email.

I have regarded you with unrivaled camaraderie since the very earliest days when you posted here. In you, Joe, I saw everything that was wrong, horrible, bad and nasty about the World, and realized that it could be channeled, focused and turned into a power for Good. In short, Joe, I saw that if one used a vile individual like a scalpel, you could geld Evil and, through the judicious use of pomposity and bureaucracy, turn it into a force for 'Good'. Mind you, the entire process is fecking tedious as hell, and the ultimate 'Good' that is achieved tastes like a fish milkshake, but it can be done. Rather regret the whole damn thing, now, frankly. But I still remember, with unutterable fondness, the day when you first showed up here, as righteous, thick and, for someone reason, as covered with treacle as two short thick planks laid atop each other, shouting 'I STAND FOR THE PENG CHALLENGE THREAD!' If I was to be totally truthful, I fully intended that time you showed up at my place to kill you and bury your body down in the Arboretum at Carleton College in Northfield. But then you dumped out my silverware drawer, and I ended up getting drunk, and we started singing old Steely Dan songs together, and by the time you were ready to leave, I realized that I'd never convince you to get into a car with me and the bag of surgical saws and knives I'd put together when I first got your email telling me that you'd be in Minneapolis for a visit. So you went back to your hotel, and I went off and slept on the bathroom rug, with visions of dismemberment dancing in my head, and a deep, deep sadness, never to be spoken, that meant there wasn't going to be a Justicar fertilized section of South-central Minnesota that season. When are you going to visit us again, Joe? I think you should come see us in May. Easy digging in May. The season of new growth. The Season of Fertility. Nature, fecund and vibrant, caring not with what She's fertilized.

Sergei, this might be a good time to reiterate our policy regarding 'Old Testament' homoerotica. Simply stated, lad: What you do with the Bible in one hand and Google in the other is between you and whatever you conceive to be the Entity that will gather your vile, damned and corrupted soul into the appropriate level of Hell, but please don't post your last trip in the Psycho-Sexual-Historical 'Way Back Machine' here. It slows down the browsers, while taking us to a place in your head that requires enough hand-washing to degrade skin-tone.