Seanachai

And then what? You take on your third, or fourth 15 year old child bride bought from the neighbouring tribe? You need to return to civilization, man. Or are there still too many outstanding warrants?

Abbot, the bus conversion is looking good. I couldn't see every shot (dial-up connection problems with loading photos thing). I'll check it out again at work this week. I'm going to send the link to the guy I'm working for. A right-wing nut-job contractor who would find what you're doing really interesting, I think.

Damn straight baby! It's the only way I can get you a ticket to the gulf so I can take you on a 4WD trip into the desert to check out the mysterious, secret 'paddling location' where I can slaughter you with a ball peen hammer and a cheese grater and leave your remains to mummify under a sandy dune for a wandering camel to one day take a dump on. </font>

Hard to say if you're too bloody drunk to type & spell, or if you're simply being Australian. Hahahahahaha! It was a trick thought, since it amounts to the same thing. Follow the money, Stuka. If you're going to work for the bloody Arabs, then move towards the light. And by that, I mean 'Move towards the most Westernized incarnation.' You go to work for the freaking Saudis, man, and you're out.

Great, I have the imprimatur of the Redneck of the Peng Challenge Thread. Thought the bugger was dead. Haven't seen him post in ages. Hey, Abbott. What about the bus RV, you aimless bugger?

Quit yer whinging, you rotting pudding. Get up there and versify until the pain drives them into a frenzy of response. Why are people like you always looking for a handout from the Olde Ones? I suppose you're going to go on and on about how your goddamn ancestors came to this country on the Mayflower, and how you blame the Peng Challenge Thread for the fact that no three-ply velvet has been gently dabbed over your backside after every ****e since then.

You know, Stuka, that no one finds you more abhorrent and vile than I do. Aren't you living in Dubai, or some ridiculous place of money and stupidity? Can't you just ask your Arab Masters for a freaking shrubbery? Something they could put on top of a re-creation of the Colossus of Rhodes, or Stohehenge done in ice, or somthing? But I'm not sure we should be here. I missed the fact that Elvis had started us up again. Not in a very good way. Awful title. Usual first post. I mean, letting his incarnation die is like exposing a twisted and crippled child born to slaves die on a hillside somewhere. And wasn't America trying to become more like Sparta?

My thread reads better. Someone kick Elvis in the danglies.

Oh, crap. I didn't see this until after I started it up again. Bugger.

Creep on at this petty pace to here: Sound and Fury

Do we still do the Rules anymore? I can't remember the last time we had some halfwit sod in here that we needed to do the Rules for. Is anyone still playing the Game? I mean, in its new, sleek, pointless incarnation? Thank the gods for the canon of games we already possess. Ah, well. Time for a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury: Welcome, dear friends! To the Show that never ends! Step inside, step inside... We continue to occupy this place because we've made it too hideous for anyone else to want. No one wants to bring their motored-up, sexy discussions of the tarted-up weapons of Modern Combat in here. They're all busy telling each other lies about capabilities, and specs, and 'potential' combat. Here, we return to a simpler time. This Thread is now as relevant as a discussion of the Thirty Years War. Remember that one? Of course, it actually took place. No, I imagine that the Peng Challenge Thread will be here until doomsday. You know, when George Lucas makes a Prequel to Combat Mission: Shockforce. Until then, wipe your feet when you come in here, you're in our house now, eh? Don't talk about your fecking genitalia while you're wiping your feet, don't treat women badly, and we're pretty sure there's someplace else you should be, possibly court, possibly applying bleach to wherever it is you last left your DNA. Try to say something witty... Oh, what the hells' the point? Try to say something relevant. I don't give a dingo's todger if it's witty anymore. Take your hands out of your pockets. And try and appear more subservient when I'm talking to you. Stand up straight. And say something witty. What? I don't care what I said before. Say something witty or piss off.

Snow tonight, snow tomorrow. You're a lot of gibbering apes, each and every one. I want to paddle my kayak over the lakes. I want that moment that..can I describe it to you? I want to lay out the frame of my kayak, and put it together, piece by piece. I want to puff and blow, a bit, about sliding the frame into the skin. I want to snap down the central turnbuckle, and then put one hand on it, to make sure it doesn't pop up and catch my hand, blackening a nail, while I push to the side turnbuckles. I want to sit in a smooth, black and blue skin, gliding over a Minnesota lake. Down a river. This is a State of water. I pity you lot that will never know this kind of joy. I could try and describe it, but...why bother? Also, someone get me a goddamn drink.

I don't think Small Emma will tire of her Grandma Steve anytime soon. And even if she does....We will never tire of our Grandma Steve in here. </font>

Damned, and thrice damned, by your own mouth. You get to do her for eternity, just as she looks now. Your punishment for being almost unspeakably shallow, vile, idiotic and...did I mention shallow? Also, I'll be showing up in Hell as a guest DJ, and spinning ABBA for you until you admit that 'Fernando' was your fave of all time. Being a guest DJ in Hell to torment the stupid Damned? Just one of the perks of being an Olde One of the Peng Challenge Thread. Talk to Berli. He's mad weird with his 'Get to Push the Buttons in Hell Free' cards. Make sure you use it right away. We're getting some reports that after a couple of weeks, your penis falls off. That's pretty bad, for a normal person. Not like you lot. But we're being told that it crawls off and starts life anew as a member of a Boy Band. And the goddamn thing doesn't even write its own material.

I told you that this would end in tears. But that's okay, right? It will give you something to write about in your drunken, senile old age. Michael </font>

Quite horrible, in the way that only a Chumbawamba song gone wrong can be horrible. Kudos, Dalem, at continuing to be at the very bottom of the literary food chain. Normally, to meet with the writings of a man of your talents, you have to climb up the arse of a pop star who's torn a page out of a Roald Dahl book, eaten it, and washed it down with a large shot of of some 'flavour of the day' vodka.

I now live under a shadow. The shadow that, soon, my friend Small Emma will no longer have any interest in Grandma Steve. She's getting to be such a self-contained little person now. And her sister, Smaller Nora, once viewed as simply an 'annoyance', is poised on the brink to become a great chum/playmate. The other day her Mom was off for Spring break, and I was working, and she decided to pack up the two little buggers and come have lunch with me. She said 'Emma, would you like to go have lunch with Grandma Steve?' And Small Emma told her: 'No'. Her Mom, who was used to an enthusiastic 'Yes! Let's go see Grandma Steve!' was taken somewhat aback. She said to her 'You don't want to have lunch with Grandma Steve?', and Small Emma told her 'No, 'cause we'll go to a boring restaurant, not a kids restaurant'. I have never deserved such a judgement. Her Mom knows what is what, and who is who, and who's going to do what she wants. She bundled up the Small Friends and drove out to the remote Hell that is Eden Prairie, and we all had lunch. We ate at a Baker's Square, which is a 'Family Restaurant', and it looks like it might be one of our last opportunities to do so, 'cause they're in Chapter 11 and are going to shut down 7 metro locations, and there can't be much more than 7 of them left around town. The Magic goes away. How can it be? Will there come a day when a small, imperious Princess no longer need her most subservient Minion? Of course. She is within months of having a built in (although unruly and troublesome) playmate, her own sister. She already has playmates through Day Care. The 'thick as thieves' Anna Curtis. The irrepressible Maya Choi Choi (although I am told that that is a nickname, because her real name is simply 'Maya Choi'; Emma explained this to me, and I will some time have to explain to her what a 'nickname' actually is). And the infamous 'Isabella Brooks', who her Mom thinks has a bit too much attitude, and is snippy, and doesn't want Emma to get too chummy with, which, if you knew her Mom, is pretty damn funny. I am not, of course, completely yet abandoned. When people are visiting, and no one pays attention to the Princess, there is always Grandma Steve. And, of course, I am still the Very Best Playmate, in that I both obey her every whim, will play the most insanely silly and repetitive games ever, and, as the kicker, I am a putative adult! Which means she can play games that not only wouldn't be tolerated for a New York second by her folks, but that lie completely outside the imagination of responsible parenting. But not outside the imagination of such a Minion as - Grandma Steve. One such game, that we revisited and built upon this last weekend, is 'Magic Merry-Go-Round'. I swear by all the gods that I did not, so far as I can remember, actually come up with this game. On the other hand, I find it amusing too, and I doubt that Emma could have a come up with it completely on her own. Mea Culpa. So, on Saturday, she was showing me this bounty of beanie baby stuffed animals she'd gotten from her Grandparents (maternal). Possibly an investment in collectibles that blew-up, hard to say. And we're playing in her room, and she starts taking the beanie baby that, I believe, is supposed to be a firefly, and which she insists on calling 'flutter fly', and throwing it up in the air. She's big enough now to actually get some velocity on this stuff when she throws it. Enough so that if she throws something to Grandma Steve, he turns a bit sideways, or drops one hand down to waist level as a precaution. So, she throws this beanie baby toy up into the air, and shouts 'fly, Flutter Fly, fly!' And the thing rockets straight up, bounces off the ceiling, and hits the floor. But here's her little sister, Smaller Nora, standing there, peering up at the ceiling of the room for the next several minutes, waiting for the toy to come down. I completely broke up. Had a hard time fetching 'Flutter Fly' back so that Emma could make him fly again. So, after several minutes of the soft toy smacking into the ceiling, Small Emma suddenly remembered a long forgotten (and not quite completely forbidden) game. Which she now calls 'Magic Merry-Go-Round'. Which involves a much taller Minion, such as Grandma Steve, taking and (with a bit of a hop and slam-dunk), placing a beanie baby toy on top of the blades of the overhead ceiling fan in her room. This involves a bit of work, as the fan is up there, and the toy has to be tossed in such a way as to skim beneath the ceiling, and yet stay on top of the fan. Sometimes it takes several tries, and, at the end, Grandma Steve is a bit puffed and red-faced. Emma immensely enjoys the attempts, and laughs when the toy doesn't stay on the blade. She joins Grandma Steve in saying 'You stay up there, Seahorse!' or whatever, but enjoys it just as much if the toy bobbles off the blade and another attempt has to be made. Finally, when Dragon 'Tippy Toppo', Jellyfish 'JaJa', 'Flutter Fly', greyhound puppy 'Mileu' and Seahorse 'Emma' are all in place atop the blades of the fan, comes the big moment. The moment when Emma runs over to the wall controller, and turns on the fan, and starts 'The Magic Merry-Go-Round'. Of course, within the next minute or so, the various bean bag stuffed animals become missiles flying about her room. We take careful note of which one fell off first, and which one lasted the longest. We cheer the one that hit Grandma Steve squarely in the face, and knocked his glasses off, and we try to ignore the one that almost took out his wine glass (having my glass in the room during 'Magic Merry-Go-Round' got me a stern word from Small Emma). We laugh hysterically about the one that hit the tent netting over her bed, and slid down like it was on a long slide, even though it knocked off one of the beautiful model butterflies her Mom has pinned to the netting. Grandma Steve pins it back up. At the end of a round of this game, Small Emma heaves a sigh and says, 'Oh my goodness, that is so much fun.' And I tell her 'Emma, I have to go. I have to go up to Dalem's' She tells me 'Wait! We have to play this game 3 more times!" She is the Great Negotiator these days. I tell her: Okay, Emma, we will play three more times, but then it is done, and ( a thing I've learned from her folks), you have to agree that we are done, okay? And she agrees. But she doesn't mean it. Her Dad is loving, reasonable, and firm. Her Mom is loving, indulgent, and no-nonsense. She knows that Grandma Steve is the biggest god-damn push-over in the Universe. So we have to play 'Three more times'. So we play 'three more times'. And I tell her "Emma Sine, that is all, I have to go now". And she tries to explain to me that we need to play the game 'three more times'. And when I tell her that we just played the game three more times, she tells me 'No, three more times in a row.' Attempts to explain the difference lead nowhere on either side. Her Dad shows up, and she knows she has to be reasonable. I tell her goodbye, and make my way back downstairs, where the wine is all gone, and the guests have left, and her Mom is in the front lawn, talking with the neighbour lady who dislikes me because I park my KIA in front of their house. Jen says to me 'So, did you guys have fun?'. And I tell her 'Well, yeah, but...we were playing that game you don't like. Magic Merry-Go-Round. And she looks distracted. 'What game is that?' And I bite the bullet, as all good minions eventually must, and I tell her 'The one where I put all the soft toy animals on the blades of the overhead fan, and then Emma turns on the fan.' And Small Emma's Mom says: No! (and laughs). Goddamn it, didn't I tell you not to play that one with her anymore?! And I, Grandma Steve, assume the demeanor of an angel, and tell her: "Jenny, we are very responsible. I have trained her to never put the fan on more than 'low'" But to be realistic, those goddamn soft toys come off the fan blades like mortar shells, low setting or not.

Today, I was offered the chance to buy several hundred dollars worth of 'garden gnome, solar' from a bankrupt outlet buyer. I was conflicted. It's an interesting office... environment that I'm currently working in. And the paddling season simply has to start soon.

The day I let a bastard like you shoot me is the day I wave a pint at the masses and smile. Points to you for being in there and pissing about, Stuka.

Am I the only one here who thinks that the whole business of using your toe to pull the trigger of the shotgun lacks dignity?

Be quiet. This isn't about you. Although....your hair looks quite fetching, when you do it like that. You Aussie bastard.

I know the other Forum. I do not know the thread. I figure 'big C' is cancer. I have lived this ****e for more years than I've been drunk. Instead of tasking me, and assuming I know what the hell is going on, why not just send me a link, and precis? Sympathy? I'm the ****ing God of Sympathy, at this point. But I'm about to deal with the fact that my Step-Dad, who's never liked me, is about to die of liver cancer. Why do you think I have any idea what's going on in the Universe? I'm scrambling for a living, and not making a very good job of it. I spend a lot of time being pissed off. I'd love to offer a heartfelt 'Yeah, brother' to someone. Instead of sending me cryptic 'PM Messages' from the other thread, why don't you just email me up front, and tell me what's going on? Jesus to Jesus, and eight hands around, Roger. Don't send me off to search for why I should be concerned about someone. Tell me. I hate ****ing humanity. But I love people. Do I have to dance like a fool to care about you and yours?

Eh, I grow old, I grow old. Of course, I'm simply growing older. You fecks tend to grow old. But you are my little lads, and lasses, and I will not forsake you. It was a GOOD night at Dalem's. Lars was there, and full of piss and vinegar. I can't remember the last time I saw Lars that animated. Normally, he just grins a lot, raises his beer now and then, and grins some more. Makes you want to find something with which to cave in his head. That disturbing, 'Gary Shandling' smiling inoffensiveness. He's as cuddly as a good hunting dog, but you still want to put a load of #6 shot into his arse, just to show him that you're paying attention. He's smarter than his apparent stupidity would seem to indicate. Best shoot him in the arse now, just to make sure he doesn't get above himself. Papa Khann, who is seriously focused on winning was doing a good job of being himself. Kudos. Papa Khann is not like you and me. He's fair. He's focused. He doesn't take losing to heart. He's all about the goddamn game. And he intends to win. He usually does. Makes you hate him, just a bit. But when he loses, he takes that in stride, too. Winning isn't even something he wants to gloat about. It's just the only destination he acknowledges. To match yourself against him is like playing 'Deep Blue'. Except 'Deep Blue' probably doesn't try to get laid as much. When he came over to my house last Fall to go to the Renaissance Festival with me and Dalem, he was hitting on my landlord's wife, simply because she was wondering why we were sitting in the front lawn looking like drunk marmots. In his defense, it wasn't Papa Khann who looked like a drunk marmot. Dalem...what can I say about the lad? He had to play the Spanish in a game of the Peninsular Campaign against Napolean. It became clear mid-way through the first turn that he was completely...fecked. So, rather than concentrate on the game, he spent the next couple of hours getting drunk. Given the circumstances, it was probably a good decision. The only ETERNALLY annoying thing about Dalem, and believe me, I've been there enough, long enough, and equally annoying enough to opine about it is this: When the fecker gets drunk, he keeps saying...he keeps saying...he keeps saying, over and over again...he keeps claiming...he keeps telling everyone...he tells everyone...he tells everyone... That he isn't actually drunk. Or that he's not all that drunk. Or that he's not as drunk as he'd like to be. Ahem... I would like to offer this bit of observation, to our own fine Dalem. SHUT UP! WHEN I TELL YOU YOU'RE DRUNK, YOU STUPID ****ER, YOU'RE DRUNK! I'VE BEEN DRUNK FOR YEARS! DO YOU THINK I DON'T KNOW DRUNKENNESS WHEN I SEE IT, YOU STUPID BASTARD?! THE NEXT TIME YOU FALL OVER A GODDAMN CHAIR AND TELL ME 'I'M NOT AS DRUNK AS I'D LIKE TO BE', I'M GOING TO STAB YOU THROUGH THE LUNGS WITH ONE OF YOUR OWN SWORDS, AND LET YOU DROWN IN YOUR OWN BLOOD, YOU DRUNK BASTARD! Dalem is one of my best friends. It is going to pain me immensely the next time I'm over there, and I'm drunk, and he's drunk, and I have to kill him for being a stupid drunk bastard. Five bucks from my mother's handbag four thirteen from Margaret Kathy stole some cigarettes Now empty out your pockets Three more dollars buys a mickey Plus John Paul's commission Everybody calls him 'Pope' He pretends he's laughing with them Meet you at the Pits As soon as I hear snoring I can crawl outside through my bedroom window If the dog, doesn't bark Meet you in the moonlight Leave the ghetto blaster quiet Let's just listen to the crickets And the heartbeat of the dark John Paul's got deliveries Our saviour since he turned eighteen And Perry's always first to turn green Weaves into the maple trees Drops down upon his knees And someone yells 'nice being you, again' Campfire fueled by some old fence The sky's like planetariums And I'm too shy to kiss your neck So I kick dirt at Curtis Stomach burns and landscapes spin And there's no washing off this grin As our hands brush between the scenes And hold a secret service Meet you at the Pits As soon as I hear snoring I can crawl outside through my bedroom window If the dog, doesn't bark Meet you in the moonlight Leave the ghetto blaster quiet Let's just listen to the crickets And the heartbeat of the dark Dalem and I are flamingoes. He's a stupid, barely mentally competent Neo-Con, who will, within a few months, revert to being simply a 'Conservative', when some new political situation allows him to abandon the useless, embarrassing political position he's defended for the last few years like Leonidas at Thermopylae. We're buddies, though. Stupid feck. Bros before Politicos. We're presented with a selection of 'Possible Masters' none of whom I'd cross the street to piss on if they were on fire. And people like me and Dalem, we get in each other's faces debating the wisdom of whores who don't have any wisdom, and don't care about the fact that me and Dalem exist. The funny thing is, when I was a young man, I was a Liberal, and I listened to the stirring speeches of people who sought to rouse me up to 'Make America Great Again'. And I never bought into all that rhetoric. I still don't. And Dalem knows that. I'm old, now, and evil...amazingly evil, and I don't trust in anything. But the thing is, us Liberal/Lunatic Fringe types are supposed to be the first to embrace every empty promise, every stupidity, every snake-oil salesman. And that's all he's done for the last 7 years. He's sucked down the kool-aid of WMDs, Irag connection with Terrorism, and 'Democracy Will Set Them All Free'. And despite no support for ANY OF THIS, he still wants to make out like he's the smart one. He's Denny Crane. I'm Alan Shore. We're flamingoes, together. I guess I shouldn't expect him to ever, sometime, however briefly, JUST FOR ONE ****ING MOMENT IN HISTORY Acknowledge that I got some stuff right. And he didn't know all the answers. My uncertainty didn't kill anyone. His certainty killed untold thousands. So, Dalem, the next time you're drunk, and you're pissing in my face about the Democrats I've got to work with, as someone who won't vote for the Republicans who put us into this place in History, I want you to Shut the **** Up. I'd say more, but it might be...unseemly.

And now, before I lose consciousness and go over to Dalem's tomorrow, how 'bout a strange and slightly nostalgic singsong? Bet Elvis went through something like this... Sister Clarissa could have been on the stage But Jesus came over & told her He'd rather she taught the fifth grade Sister Clarissa is engaged to Our Lord He has promised to take her to heaven He never goes back on His word Sister Clarissa is eleven feet tall Her rosary hangs & it clatters & it clangs When she moves down the hall She writes 'Sister Clarissa' up high on the board The chalk won't dare squeak The children sit meekly without a word Somehow you know summer's over. Who made me? God made me To know Him To love Him To serve Him in this world And to be happy with Him Forever Sister Clarissa believes in free will The communion of saints The forgiveness of sins And a quiet fire drill And when she hugs you She hugs you too tight And she gives you a star on the forehead For spelling Connecticut right Who made me? God made me To know Him To love Him To serve Him in this world And to be happy with Him Forever Many years later on a memory walk Through the old wooden doors Down the same corridors Dusted with years of chalk You see Sister Clarissa And she looks just the same And the sound of her rosary still brings a chill And she remembers your name And the years disappear As though they've never been And you hear yourself saying Yes Sister No Sister Like you were ten And you're so glad to see That she's still the same way And to tell her you love her Before she goes over to Her Fiance Who made me? God made me To know Him To love Him To serve Him in this world And to be happy with Him Forever Sister Clarissa" -Michael Smith

Have I mentioned it, lately, that Boo HAS BETRAYED ME?!