Seanachai

West Virginia? You mean the gene pool that spilled over to give birth to Ohio? The State where the three R's are taught: Readin', 'Ritin', and the Road to Akron? Apologies, Boo, but although we extend 'Minnesota Nice' to visitors from the Southern States, we do not allow them to settle here. They bring down the tone of the place. I did a brief stint in Columbus, Ohio, dearest Boo. I'd been living on the Neon Beach in southern Florida (West Palm Beach to Miami), and the consensus was I couldn't immediately move back to the hallowed North without incurring a 'culture shock' case of delayed reaction Shame that might have left me unfit to live anywhere outside Indiana. It was decided by a panel of mental health professionals (well, actually, several drunkards and drug addicts from Ohio that I'd known in Florida, but they were a great group of people, and very into Firesign Theatre) that the best way for me to readjust was to live for 6 months in Ohio. Ohio is a very strange place, Boo. The north is almost like a real place, where people can even pronounce their vowels and consonants without sounding like their cud of Redman has reached the size of a well-fed guinea pig. But the remain fundamentally suspect, despite their feel of somehow being 'Northern'. But from the center of the State on south, it's all 'Baja Kentucky' and West Virginia genetic leakage. For every individual that, like your own freakish self, I'm sure, can actually speak English, there's 2 that should be rounded up by the Department of Homeland Security and summarily deported as illegal aliens. The trouble, of course, is where to deport them to. But the answer is easy. Alabama. Ohio could be reclaimed if it were willing to undergo a harsh stint of Police State tactics against the insufferably large community of demolition-derby-attending, feed-cap-wearing, overly inbred sideburn-sporting, hatchet-faced vowel-slurring Forrest Gumps that clog the State from the highest levels of its government to the lowest levels of its innumerable trailer parks. Send them home, Boo. Return them to the Deep South, where the sudden massive influx of mouth-breathing, bottom-feeding non-competers will be passed off as the result of an unusual number of Family Reunions being held. And they would be right. The only question, oh best beloved Boo, is if you would still be there when the repatriation sweeps were completed.

Nowhere more often than here do I feel the visceral impact of Sartre's statement that: "Hell is other people" Oh, well, actually, it's even more hideously true on the General Forum, but that's not a 'real' place. [ August 28, 2002, 10:32 AM: Message edited by: Seanachai ]

Is it all of them, or is it only our Kiwis that suck?

Once again you prove that you have no sense of the gravity of the situation and you're probably drunk as well.</font>

Bah! They should use 'Scotland the Brave'. And no single bloody piper, either. Massed bands.

The last, best hope of Mankind for a more humourous tomorrow...

Actually, if any of you lot of pillocks haven't read Papa Khann's description of the evening, sod on off back to the previous Thread and give it a look. The man could be a journalist. He captured the very essence and heart of the evening. And now, I'm a bit tired from contemplating how hideous the entire experience was. Oh, except for the incredible amount of abuse we heaped on several of you (anyone giving it some thought can come up with a short list of those who were most severely and thoroughly abused and belittled). That bit was quite jolly, and there are any number of waitresses, attractive bar-goers, bartenders, and people who spend the evenings boating about Lake Minnetonka who will laugh until they can't hold their water if they ever meet you. Yes, we used your real names as well as your screennames. How do we know them? Simple. BFC graciously provides us with the names and addresses of everyone who comes in here. That one made some of you lot nervous, now didn't it? Oh, and Slapdragon. I hate and despise you. I'm going to get a gun (Dalem and Lars have thousands of the damn things, seemingly, and Lars's cousins are probably involved in selling them internationally), and I'm going to come to your house and shoot you right through the lungs. Then I'm going to sit down, and crack a couple of beers and offer you one while I drink the other and watch you expire from your sucking chest wound. Or, at least I would if I didn't actually know that only by driving a stake through your heart, cutting off your head, burning your body, and then scattering the ashes at a crossroads is the only way to actually kill you and put an end to your endless fund of insane knowledge and annoying opinions. So, after shooting you through the lungs, I will also do all the above to you as well. I don't ever want you, Slapdragon, to think that other nations hate you worse than we do, and I'm certainly not letting a bunch of unevenly evolved marsupials take you out when that privilege should be one that your fellow Americans have first right to.

Oh, and Gaylord Focker is actually 'Iron Chef Sakai' returned to us. Apparently this time he wants to belong, and will even make the odd attempt at spelling and grammar, and has shed some of the annoying attitude that marked his first incarnation. I say, if he's willing to acknowledge who he is, then let us take him under our wing. If he continues to posture and deny it, then let us send him on a deer-hunting weekend with Lars's cousins. End of problem.

There is an old saying (lost on most of you lot, who can't remember whether you're incarcerated from day to day) that states that: The One who gets there first, writes history. Actually, this is a bit of a paraphrase of the concept that: 'History is written by the Victors'. In this bloody case (shut the hell up, you Aussie swine! I'm making a point here!) the point is: I am the Victor. That's right, you lot of pedigreed low-sperm-count whingers, I'm the first back online to post the results of the meeting of the Justicar with the Minnesota Miscreants. And all I have to say is: Pray to God you never end up in a bar with one of Lars's innumerable cousins. The goddamn stories will curl your hair. This man is, seemingly, related to some 150 serious drunkards/drug abusers/gun owners/lunatic felony perpetrators. On the other hand, he's got a great boat, and we all had a very good time cruising around Lake Minnetonka drinking beer, ogling attractive women, and having them turn smoky eyed glances on Lars, Dalem, and, surprisingly, Papa Khann (he's got this wonderful Clark Gable mustache thing going, and retained consciousness through all of Lars's stories about his 'cousins'), although Joe and I had to satisfy ourselves with courtly gestures and women smiling at us as though we were their fathers. Berli! The next time you visit, we simply have to go out on the lake in Lars's boat. It was a treat. [ August 26, 2002, 01:46 AM: Message edited by: Seanachai ]

I say 'tomato', you use stange diacretical marks to pronounce it like some Brit... What we really both mean is: Lets use the empties to bash up a good red sauce and have it over noodles so we've got something in our stomachs so we don't throw-up in the morning. Amen.

If I was in Australia right now, I'd have to look up the word 'hangover' in a dictionary published in another country to find out what it really means, because if I looked it up in a dictionary published in Australia, what I'd get is: 'A feeling of temporary disorientation suffered by those who haven't been drinking for a few hours'. And I assume that by 'Sunday session' you mean the booze-up at church that passes for religion amongst you lot.

Bah! I wave my hand at you! All that means is that until the hangover fades I've got dual US and Australian citizenship.

Berli! Are you conducting figure skating contests with the Souls of the Damned, by any chance? Ice Dancing competitions by Nazi War Criminals? No? I thought not. Sorry, Panzer Leader. Miracles are well within the powers of the Olde Ones. Abominations of Reality take a while longer.

Good word, you ARE drunk, aren't you.</font>

Bah! You little toad! Let's see you do anything sober half as well as I do it drunk! Still, it's nice to see you coming along. Nice indeed. You've got my permission to unmercifully put the boot in on one of the SSNs. Or even an annoying Squire. No, don't thank me, lad. You've earned it. Took long enough, I might add.

Well, as I understand it, Lars has simply thousands of boats...most of them probably sensibly engined with motors for fishing and hunting, but perhaps he has something horribly over-powered that can be used to attract young women into range of your lens. I know, tell them you golf! That'll have them pulling their tank-tops up for your photos! Seriously, Old Foul Joe, if you want to really meet, mix-with, and engage the interest of women, you have to put on the pointy red hat, lad! "Why have you got that stupid looking red hat on?" "It's a penance, dear lady. A gease that I have taken on in order to expiate a sin from my past." "A sin? What's a gease? Penance. You mean like doing the rosary?" "Indeed, Fair One. A gease is like a knightly quest, a committment taken on as a point of honour. And yes, I have sinned." "That hat makes you look really stupid." "Of course. A man with less self-confidence in his manhood would never wear it, and one with less sins on his soul wouldn't need to." "You keep saying you've sinned. I bet you haven't, what kinds of sins would a short, fat fella like you have to worry about?" giggles heavy sigh "Beautiful Lady, they are numerous, and every one a heavy stone on my conscience. But what has driven me to wearing the Gnome Hat of shame is..." a certain amount of whispering, with occasional hand gestures "Oh My God!" "Alas, yes. Also..." more whispers, with soulful looks "Jesus Christ!" "Indeed. And..." further whispering, with the occasional ear-lobe nibbling "You Horrible Old Man!" "Entirely. And so, I wear the Red Hat of Shame." licks lips, pulse fluttering in her throat, and leans further forward, very far forward, and nearer "Er...I was wondering..." "Yes, Oh Venus?" "Could you introduce me to your friend? The one who looks like Gary Shandling?" "Certainly, Fair One. His name is Lars." "Cool. Oh, and if he's not a doctor or lawyer, or anything, I'll be back so you can, you know, show me about that thing several moments of whispering that you have to wear the hat about." "Indeed. You know, that distinguished looking man over there is my friend, as well. If it doesn't work out between you and Lars, would you prefer to meet him?" "Ooooh, no. He looks like he golfs!"

Er, beautiful Ladies, would there yet be room for my large, chain-saw sculpture of an Eagle perched on a Salmon (or, as my sister, the former unwilling owner called it 'Vulture Perched On Carp')? And me 'very tasteful and decorative' Jackalope head? Goodness, but you Ladies certainly have a lovely capacity for the genteel drinking of the fermented grape!

Since you apaprently can't read your bloody email, am I supposed to pick you up tomorrow or what?</font>

Golf is the Sport of Evil. Well, not a Berli-esque sort of Evil. Perhaps 'evil' without capitalization. Aqua Velva? Surely you jest, sirrah! Why, I have actually been confronted by Officers of the Law drinking a $15 bottle of German Wine out of a paper bag under railroad bridges in Sioux Falls, South Dakota! Aqua Velva indeed! I may, sir, be a vile, useless, inebriated ÜberGnome, but, sir, and please take note, I have style, standards, and a certain bearing which, frankly, my dear Shaw, marks me as one of Nature's Noblemen. Not like the foot-shuffling, hands-jammed-into-their-pants-pockets lot of expletive and scatology mumbling lackwits we've been flooded with lately. Consider the shock, sir, of a man of my (admittedly short) stature (although as a friend once told me 'you bulk large in the imagination'), to discover that a man who I have consistently and unreservedly supported (a man, I might add, who I originally met under a Salt Lake City highway overpass, reeking of alcohol, and who attempted to clean my windshield with the bottle of Lavacol he'd just been drinking from and a pair of torn and stained jockey shorts...alright, that might not have been you, but I wouldn't bet on it for a lark, and if it wasn't you, why was he wearing that Patton outfit?), golfs? (everyone still with me? No? Well, stay sharp, you'll get the hang of it eventually) I'm shocked. Shocked, and appalled. Shocked, appalled, and...here, my glass is empty. Back in a while...

Having a bloody beer with you at Lord Fletcher's on St. Albans Bay, now won't I you great, posturing load of Texas duff?! And watching Lars and Dalem oggling young women, no doubt (young people today, so energetic, yet so predictable). Lars, one of my lady friends says to remind you they've posted the 'No Wake' rules on Lake Minnetonka again. I take this to mean if Shaw dies during the evening, we're not allowed to drink whiskey and sing songs to his memory. Which strikes me as horribly wrong, and not indicative a free society. I blame Ashcroft and that load of useless pillocks he's brought into the Justice Department.

You golf?!! I may throw-up. All that time spent supporting a shoddy parody of a human being.

Hmm, is this another of those "Can you believe there's some dumbass person/thread/game/movie/book/erudite military historical study that doesn't believe the Waffen SS were the best soldiers of the war/the greatest soldiers ever/the finest achievement of human history/the men I wish had fathered my children? Pretty bizarre, eh?" threads, or just another silly misconception? [ August 24, 2002, 08:27 PM: Message edited by: Seanachai ]

Peng did. How much does the demo cost? </font>

See? Even though he locked down my thread, Madmatt would have voted to have you put to death, not Beman or Emrys.

That won't begin until Dalem has Joe, I and the other Minnesota miscreants over for seared meat and alcohol on Sunday. Look for a home in Nord East going on the market dirt cheap in the Monday classifieds...