Seanachai

And you're drinking it now, aren't you, you fecker?

Eh, you have to come to Dalem's then. Not only will you be given a sword, upon request, and with the proper movie accompaniment, but if you come over all Ishmael, you can go down into the basement and get the goddamn harpoon. Also, his current liquor cabinet looks like something that would make Hemingway sit up and smile. Every time I go over there, it makes me realize that the next Renaissance Festival here in town, with it's multiplicity of 'creative anachronism' craftsmen, I should buy a really good battleaxe. Sharpened. I've always loved axes. Spent several summers in Canada, at our Cabin, splitting wood, in my youth. It's a singularly introspective and focused activity. I also really like sledgehammers. Spent a couple of summers working construction, demo-ing vacancies. The hammer is harder. An axe has its own focus. With a hammer, you have to concentrate more.

Eh, Michael. I ask so that I can send you a song. For myself, I'm willing to put the time in. But I find that if I send a 12 meg song file to someone on dial-up, they get fecking bored, and simply delete the email. But I wanted you to see not only the lyrics, but hear the voice, and the harp work. A brae tale, well done. And the Old Man said: Her name, is Youth And there's little enough that any of you cared for her While She was yours, until She was gone And the name of the wee white goat is the World And there's none can bind that but Me And my name Is Death "Finn in the Old Man's House" -Robin Williams

Good looking enough for a regiment, you Aussie feck!

You're losing your touch. Maybe you should start drinking again. I'm having a JD sour right now. You could have one too. Michael </font>

4PM? Is this so you can all go to the "Early Bird Dinner" over at Denny's? </font>

This may be the single most surreal string of words I've read here in three years. </font>

Sorry, but you've never been to a meeting of the Minnesota Miscreants. A 'lonely Saturday night' would be infinitely preferable. Actually, let's be honest. Five out of the Nine levels of Hell are preferable. We would have beaten out the Sixth Level of Hell, but we lost points for the fact that Lars's wife sometimes cooks for us, and Dalem routinely hands out swords to drunkards. Between the good eats and good times, we placed fifth. Now, if Shari was to come over to Dalem's house and cater, we'd probably slip to the Fourth Level, if not lower. I mean, well fed drunken bastards putting out an eye with rapiers? That's bordering on rising towards Heaven, that is...

When the hammer finally comes down on our lives, the truth of the matter is: You're a responsible gun owner and user. And I'm a lunatic. It won't be me on the hood of a car, Bucky. Well, I may be on the hood of the car, but only because that's where I'm capering. And there is no one who can caper like I can. If anyone's taking a bullet in a drunken frenzy in the woods, you ass, it's going to be you. And, from my position of capering on the hood of your suddenly much larger car, I will seek to entertain the officers with a tale of befuddlement and stupidity. I imagine that after we wave good bye at the coroner's wagon taking you off to your dirt nap, the sheriff's deputies will all buy me beers at the nearest local dive. Because I entertain, son. You're just another bugger who keeps the House By the Side of the Road.

I'll have to tell Melissa 'No' for both of us, then. She's doing a movie night at her house. But I can be there. She takes comfort in the fact that you've promised to do an MST3K night soon at your place. You will, then, have to do an MST3K night soon. Fans only. Lesser species will be subjugated.

Don't make me get all liquored up and call you at 3 AM, Olde Man. You don't want to hear my brand of drunken abuse. I am... olympian in my wrath. </font>

I've been told, then. I'm a stupid old man who needs to just go off and die, then, eh? It will come as a great relief to everyone. I can spend my declining years declining quicker. As in simply ****ing off. Declining into the void as quickly as possible. Over and out.

Tomorrow, Dalem will be visited by 'Bilious', the 'Oh God' of Hangovers. Serve him right and proper. Of course, we will be attending the same service of worship, although we will be in bathrooms removed by miles. It will involve a lot of kneeling. Just like Catholicism, but with less vomiting for cause...

Men of Harlech stop your dreaming Can't you see their spear points gleaming See their warrior's pennants streaming To this battle field Men of Harlech stand ye steady It cannot be ever said ye For the battle were not ready Stand and never yield Form the hills rebounding Let this war cry sounding Summon all at Cambria's call The mighty force surrounding Men of Harlech onto glory This shall ever be your story Keep these fighting words before ye Welshmen never will not yield Over at Dalem's. You're all a bunch of drunken feckers. I know I am. And so is Dalem. Now, who amongst you would be as moved as I by watching Pratchett's version of 'The Hogfather' turned into a completely magical live action movie?

Wait a minute. You beat Lars? I thought it was Papa Khann! Trashing Lars...that's like kicking a puppy to death with doc martins. NO POEM FOR YOU!

What were you trying for? Miss Congenitally Dim? Rune and I have an agreement. I don't make him reveal his complete and utter impotence and pointlessness in the post-Shock Force game-play wasteland, and he doesn't have to clear two lanes of traffic for me through Chicagoland before 11 pm. I figure he got the better part of that deal. He can still make out like he's a player. Anyone who calls upon me for salvation simply should not be driving through Chicago. No one cares. The East Coast is where the concept of America has gone to die in its own waste. Between Philadelphia and Scranton is...Alabama. There's gratitude for you. Only the rampant voter fraud and corruption that characterizes central and southern Ohio gave you your Presidente. They used to say 'Chicago is the most democratic place in America, because even the dead can vote there!' In Ohio they say 'You tell us how many votes you need, and we'll stay here all night, if we need to, making an X on a piece of paper to get there. Just don't ask us to spell 'X'.' Yay, brother. You drive through there, and it looks like the Plain of Udun, on the way to the gates of Mordor. Flames at night, and endless rows of soot covered, falling down housing during the day. And you never see a soul on the streets. It's like some hideous vision of a Post-Apocalyptic America in which the last few souls are crouched in cellars because The Vampires are holding a 'hunt' through the streets of town... From your lips to God's ears! Apt. But they're so damn friendly, there. If a bit dim. Ice is going, snow is going, I remain. I'm like...Springtime.

What a load of bollocks! The mere fact that it takes you two pages to tell a story when one paragraph of five lines would do, goes to show your written diarrhoea has no limit. Back in the "good old days" the quill would have gone blunt and saved us all from your rambling discourse on all things small. </font>

It's 'Prenaeste', you toad. An Epic Poem about the Destruction of Roman Legions by the Ancient Arms of Etrusca, and Rude Samite Warriors. You don't even remember what side you were playing, you bastard. I know I owe you a poem on your victory, but try and fill in the gaps... Take that bottle of rum out of your mouth and answer me, you swine!

Lined up some more work today, however poorly paid, however part time, however unlikely to lead to a secure retirement and a dotage surrounded by empty bottles of single malt scotch and albacore tuna cans, rather than Phillips vodka and a better quality wet cat-food. Can anyone deny the miracle of canned fish? I think not.

You're a weird little bastard. You know that, don't you? </font>

Figures Emrys would still have his 1950's set of Playboys. </font>

Let's face it, you could be waltzed through every duty free on the planet by Fidel Castro, and you still wouldn't know what to buy. I figure that for you Ozzies, dingo ****e wrapped in a eucalyptus leaf that's been gummed by a koala bear probably passes as a premium smoke. So admit it, Stuka me lad. When you're smoking one of your duty frees, the local dog population begins following you from place to place, doesn't it? Which isn't a good thing, Stuka. Dogs aren't honoured in the Arab culture the way they are in the West. You're a marked man. Thank God you're in one of the more progressive Arab hell-holes. If you were in the Saudi 'Kingdom', you'd probably already be in shackles and destined to give a female camel a well-deserved night off. Drop you into whatever is left of Yemen, and you'd be grinning at us from the top of a spiked pole. By the way, exactly what sort of thing would need to be mailed to you to cause the local authorities to drag you in for a jabbering session of denying you any rights by law, and a thorough-going interrogation with batons and a car-battery with alligator clip leads? Porn? People Magazine? The Jerusalem Post? A defaced copy of the Koran? Because, Stuka, here in the Peng Challenge Thread, we're all about Diversity. And the many ways in which it can be perverted to serve our own cruel ends.

Drunkard.

You're a weird little bastard. You know that, don't you?

We've got people in Australia that can do that, don't we?