Seanachai

Don't worry, lad. You'll be the last one here as well. Come early, leave late, go home alone. I imagine by the time you're 40 you'll have the largest collection of sock puppets in Europe, and be able to do every scene in 'Macbeth' by yourself...

Shut it, you manky Scots git! Good to hear from you again. Would you prefer tea, or some of this 12 year old Irish whisky?

Ah, how truly good to be back, amongst my people! Right now I am covered with dog hair and glitter. The dog hair is simply the result of having to come down to the level of a 4 year old while playing at various make-believes, and the glitter is the result of an unfortunate accident with a small, round, flat container that Small Emma told me to open, and contained a staggeringly large amount of pink glitter speckled powder that went fecking everywhere, and somehow coated every bit of my fine self. Now, I know what's going through the thoughts of each and every one of you. You're asking yourself: 'Did Seanachai miss me?' In a plaintive, little boy voice. Well, not Berli. He's thinking 'Did Seanachai miss me?', but in a voice thundering with sulfur and damnation. Also, he's randomly torturing lost souls. It's just part of his 'thing'. And, well, the truth is, I missed you all. I may have to get photos of you all, and put them on my PDA, so that when I'm away from my computer, I can do a little slide show of your pictures, and smile and say 'Get Stuffed!' to each and every one of you before I fall asleep at night. Well, I'm once again without work, and looking to somehow improve myself. I've probably got enough money to get through the next 6 months, so you'll probably see me posting more. But I leave you, for the moment, with the words of Small Emma. When I told her I had to go home so that I could post to the guys on the Peng Challenge Thread, she told me 'Oh, no, Grandma Steve! You don't need to go away. They are all very bad boys. You should stay here and play with me. You will be the Prince!' And I said to her: 'But Emma, how can I be the Prince, when I'm 'your bird'?' (see earlier Tales of Small Emma) And she thought about it, and then she told me: Sometimes you are the Prince, and sometimes you are My Bird. But tonight, you will be -- Prince Bird! You know, in a long life, I think that's the best goddamn thing I've ever been.

Taking cheap shots at people like Janet Reno is what little boys do. Little boys who are insecure in their own manhood. I have been to bed with extremely attractive women, attractive women, and women who were lovely in their hearts, under the stars, alone with only their own eyes and mine to see them. I can truthfully say that there wasn't a single one of them who didn't despair of being attractive enough, no matter how beautiful, and that because of involving themselves with men, who are, frankly, fecking pigs. Now, how to say this? I've met several of you, seen pictures of quite a few more, and you lot of drooling halfwits simply aren't in a position to be cutting up about ugly women. It's like watching a cage full of baboons hoot about how there isn't an arse puffy and red enough for them. Let's be frank. You are not the answer to the sighs of maidens. Every single one of you lot of pissants who has a woman should be on your knees, every single fecking night, praising the Goddess and proclaiming her mercy. The rest of you are just lonely geeks who spend evenings arguing with your right hand about who's going to be on top that night. And that includes you, Stuka. Doesn't matter how long you spend in front of the mirror, boyo, you're starting to be more and more like the wicked Queen, tossing a poisoned apple. I bet you've even started plucking your eyebrows, haven't you? It always shows.

Bah! Rune, I wave my hand at you. Lars has many times attempted to run over me in his boat. Sadly, for the delusional drunkard, I have never paddled on his lake. Untold tens of kayakers were dispatched by Lars this summer on Lake Minnetonka in his belief that somehow they were myself. It's sad, really.

Wouldn't that disprove the existence of God?

You know, it's a little bit disorienting, this being at home. I mean, it's almost noon and no one has brought me a delicious lunch with a glass of chilled white wine, nor given me a saucy smile while earnestly entreating me to have day filled with wonder. You do it, Boo. Fetch me a delightful lunch of chile braised pork with rice, and a tumbler of Pinot Grigio. And where's that saucy smile, eh?

Oh, and Boo, I am half way through 'Making Money' (the singing and carousing done at Disneyworld did not leave me much time to read), and I plan to start sending turns again either tonight or tomorrow, depending on whether I get together with a friend of mine tonight or tomorrow night. I have already been over to see Small Emma, and when I told her that I'd had my picture taken with Cinderella, she said, eyes totally round 'For Real?!' When I told her 'yes', my stock went up by several points, it was clear to see. Also, she both amused and disturbed me by informing me during the course of the evening that the teachers at Day Care have told her she shouldn't talk about blood so much. She couldn't, or perhaps simply wouldn't, explain to her Mother and I just exactly what she'd been saying that occasioned this rebuke. Her Mother persisted far longer than I in trying to determine the nature of her discourse, but that is only natural, as it is the job of all Grandma Steves to defend Small Emmas, as it is the job of their mothers to make sure they're not threatening general blood-lettings at their Day Care center. I like to think that she'd threatened to wash the playground clean with rivers of the blood of toddlers after her sister Smaller Nora was pushed down, badly scraping her nose and cheeks. But I think I will simply have to be satisfied that it wasn't Emma who pushed her, rather than that she was rising to her defense and vowing revenge.

I had a good time, odd as that may seem. Shortly I will send someone who can host them pictures of me defiling the Australian flag at Epcot, and bidding adieu to Cinderella at breakfast after a night of passion in the castle (the Prince was away...) Each night, as our party returned home from dinner, I was told that I had to ride in the 12 person van because all the children insisted I sing to them the "Hymn of the Immaculate Digestion", called by some the "Song to Great Fred". It was a bit odd to hear a gang of kids shouting along with the refrain 'And he's promised that he'll eat me when I'm dead!' at the top of their lungs. Especially when all of them come from profoundly Catholic families. It should occasion some consternation when they return to their parochial schools and spread the glad word about their new deity. Well, as the paddling season has all but ended (there is a chance that Thursday of this week will be nice enough for me to get out one last time), work has come to an end (at least for the nonce), and all family trips are over for the year, you lot of horrible little men may see more of my presence. And as regards this kayaking season just ended, I will now give you my totals for the season, with the proviso that they may change a bit if we do have another nice day or two. Between mid-April and mid-October I was out paddling 38 times, and was butt-in-seat, paddle-in-hand for 108 total hours. On rivers and lakes I paddled a total of 229 miles, 53 of it on rivers and 176 on lakes. My longest river paddle in a single day was only 13 miles, but my longest paddle on a lake was 15.5 miles, which is not bad in a single day on water without a current. I now return you to your normal occupation of whinging and squabbling, but I imagine that I will be back later today to shed a bit more of the light of my intellect and wit over the rude and squalid darkness of your minds.

Oh, the year it was two thousand and eight How I wish I was still back in Mound! When letters of Marque come from the Queen to the scummiest vessel I'd ever seen Goddamn them all! I was told we'd cruise the seas, For Caribbean gold we'd fire no guns Shed no tears Now I'm a broken man on St. Martin pier The last of Lars's privateers Oh bloody Lars Larson cried the town How I wish I was still back in Mound For twenty brave men Peng Challengers who Would make for him the Windy's crew Goddamn them all! I was told we'd cruise the seas, For Caribbean gold we'd fire no guns Shed no tears Now I'm a broken man on St. Martin pier The last of Lars's privateers Oh, the good ship Windy was an awful sight How I wish I was still back in Mound She'd a list to the port and her sails in rags and Lars in the scuppers with the staggers and jags Goddamn them all! I was told we'd cruise the seas, For Caribbean gold we'd fire no guns Shed no tears Now I'm a broken man on St. Martin pier The last of Lars's privateers On the Queen's birthday we put to sea How I wish I was still back in Mound We were 36 days to Montego Bay Pumping like madmen all the way Goddamn them all! I was told we'd cruise the seas, For Caribbean gold we'd fire no guns Shed no tears Now I'm a broken man on St. Martin pier The last of Lars's privateers On the 41st day we sailed again How I wish I was still back in Mound When a bloody great cruise ship hove in sight With our cracked four pounders we made to fight Goddamn them all! I was told we'd cruise the seas, For Caribbean gold we'd fire no guns Shed no tears Now I'm a broken man on St. Martin pier The last of Lars's privateers Oh the cruise ship was with treasure filled How I wish I was still back in Mound She was broad and fat and loose in stays But to catch her took the Windy two whole days Goddamn them all! I was told we'd cruise the seas, For Caribbean gold we'd fire no guns Shed no tears Now I'm a broken man on St. Martin pier The last of Lars's privateers At last we lay two cables off How I wish I was still back in Mound And our cracked four pounders made an awful din But our broadside stove our whole port side in Goddamn them all! I was told we'd cruise the seas, For Caribbean gold we'd fire no guns Shed no tears Now I'm a broken man on St. Martin pier The last of Lars's privateers Oh, the Windy shook and pitched on her side How I wish I was still back in Mound And Lars so drunk pitched over the rail The rest were covered with fallen sail Goddamn them all! I was told we'd cruise the seas, For Caribbean gold we'd fire no guns Shed no tears Now I'm a broken man on St. Martin pier The last of Lars's privateers And now I lay in me 51st year How I wish I was still back in Mound It's been six long months since we sailed away And they cut our bar tab off yesterday Goddamn them all! I was told we'd cruise the seas, For Caribbean gold we'd fire no guns Shed no tears Now I'm a broken man on St. Martin pier The last of Lars's privateers -Lars's Privateers (with apologies to Stan Rogers)

Uh, wouldn't you lose fewer cargoes bringing them ashore in the more traditional cigarette boats? I mean, I doubt 2-1/4" guns are going to frighten off either the Coast Guard or the DEA.

Where the hell is Berli? He called me up on the phone the other day and threatened me. It filled me with respect. Afterwards, I ate a huge amount of dill pickles. When you've been seriously threatened with a solid thumping, there's nothing that hits the spot like a whole load of baby dills.

And women? Are there insane German superwomen with death rays? Dammit, Dalem, every guy who's not an insane geek like you needs something so he has something to hang his hat on.

Using them to burn off those boils? </font>

Hey, Dalem! You have to try one of these 'Gloriana Cubabnas'. I actually feel them...healing me...

Who, your wife? Michael </font>

That boat sailed many moons ago, Seanachai, my old friend, and knowing you, you got frustated that you weren't first on the list of invitees, protested in highly flowery speech, and were so drunk when the reply came that you deleted it unread thinking it another advertisement for hard-on pills, which you were getting at a discount via a deranged half-cousin in the pharmaceutical industry anyway in exchange for original sonnets so that Bucky in Milwaukee might find himself a suitable mate to whose nuptials you would not be invited to embarrass the family by way of personal appearance in any event.</font>

Quite understandable. Each of the Olde Ones is something like a primal force. Peng moves through the void, full of madness, twisting reality. The more time you spend around him the more twisted things become. Full of evil, my own contribution is corruption. Ultimately, my goal is to see everyone's days be Mondays. Seanachai... well, all the cool toys were gone when we got to him, so he's full of ****e. If you are familiar with the old saying, Peng and I dazzle, Seanachai baffles. </font>

Actually, that's all I've ever wanted to have said about anything I've ever written. I guess I can die, now. tum-tum-tummty-tum tum-tum Anyone got any LSD? It's just been such a long goddamn time...

I don't 'flirt'. I simply 'am'. Repeatedly, unrelievedly, and, for the most part, horribly. If you get right down to it, you're probably too big a little girl to actually make fun of me. Go and tell you wife again how you've told off the little boys. Gotta be worth at least a quick hug, even if your ED won't let you ... Who's for a jolly singsong then, eh?

Joe, there's too much Bean Counter in your soul. Too much of the Instructor, leading minds into the mire. Too much Junker. "Ja! Serf, Squire, Knight, Seniour Knight! That is how we will have it being done here in the Peng Challenge Thread! And I will stand, slashing the marks into the stretched wolf's hide with my baton, keeping the count! And above me, are Die Menschen des Altertums! Like Wotan, and even drunker and less coherent gods, who judge us all! Although they are frankly scheiss, and only duty holds me in place, quivering with indignation, while I am constrained to act out their will! Duty! Honor! Rules!" Mind, Joe, you do bring to the whole thing a certain je ne sais quoi. A wonderful whimsy, that still retains all the flavour and nuance of Brownshirts dancing in a circle and kicking a protester in the head while doing a Big Musical Number. I rather like it. But, Joe, you must not lose sight of the fact that, after all, I am an Olde One of the Peng Challenge Thread. And, as such, I am not merely a short, stout idjit who has long since replaced the silverware that you dumped all over my kitchen floor. I am...well, mythic. I've spent several years of serious posting spadework to make it so. I have brought my compeers with me, and I have wound about us a destiny that holds us imprisoned, even as Hell holds Satan. Of course, for one of us, that's repetitive. Let us never forget that 'Seanachai' is as much a title, as the name I use here, for those who know the Gaelic. So, Joseph, my Joe! Membership in The Thread is not a turnstile, that the undeserving can jump, or be given a vault over. But participation in The Thread is the World that you all create, remember? So, sometimes, We, the Olde Ones, need to see more of the World than is dreamt of in your philosophy, Josephus. Because, Joe, it's more...Mythic, that way! Also, it tickles the piss out of me to annoy you. But only on occasion. Yes, yes, I know, it's wrong. Mea Culpa. Forgive me, Justicar, for I have sinned. Where did the Justicar come from, before there were The Rules, and The Hierarchy, and... But how else would we have The Redneck of the Peng Challenge Thread posting here, with his intriguing pictures of The Bus of the Peng Challenge Thread, unless... One day Olde One Seanachai went on walkabout, eh? And he was drinking up the wine like bees take up the nectar, and he was on the Outerboards, where all who go must walk with caution because the gods created more stupidity than they ever did the sense to recognize it, and what did he see? He saw the posts of one damn, dumb redneck, posting like a fool and belling for attention like a yeller dog that'd wrapped a chain around it's hind foot and was miserable for someone to take notice and free it. And he said to himself 'Ha! I will free this rather mentally incompetent animal, and then it will hate me forever, for one cannot expect gratitude from a creature so fecking daft as to actually post in the Peng Challenge Thread!' And so he did, and welcomed it into the Peng Challenge Thread, and proclaimed it 'The Redneck of the Peng Challenge Thread', in honor of it's ability to disguise itself as a Complete Pain in the Arse, when it was in fact the longtime poster Abbott. And then followed any number of annoying, clueless posts by both the Olde One, and Abbott, each abusing the other. And the People, who had grown complacent, and comfortable with their illusions, rose up in wrath, and reviled one or the other, and fell to bickering amongst themselves, and reverted to form. And, when at last the emails flew fast and furious amongst all the First People, there was heard a loud, brutal, bell-like tone from around all the horizon, as The Thread made Itself heard. And It, the Thread of Threads, made its voice heard, and It said: "Three Fathers, Three Fools, I will take as my own. One Fool, One Son, I will not disown. Many Sons, and All Daughters, will be my own. Mock the privates of others, but do not boast about your own." And then, while Olde One Seanachai was trying to get a leg into his pants, so that he could get to a goddamn keyboard to write it all down, Olde One Berli manifested and said: "They will each and every one of them go to Hell in an extremely stupid way. Feck 'em." And Olde One Peng rather weirdly manifested himself, dressed like he'd come to bugger Victoria Beckham. And I'm not talking about some gentle rogering, but rather like a Mythic Figure that was going to curl the hair of whoever he got on top of, while shouting insults at her mortal husband... But that's neither here nor there. What do you want, Joe? A schematic of the ways we can embiggen the Peng Challenge Thread? By the numbers, rat-tat-tat on the drums, and hope she's got an embroidered dove on her panties, to lend the sense of the mythic to the coupling? Or do you want the Olde Ones... To do what we do? When I go on Forum Walkabout, Joe, I see what I see. Justicars. Apocalyptic Horsemen. Eldest Australian. Transcendental Rednecks. Idiots. Madmen. Minions. A whole lot of arseholes, one way or another. I am the Storyteller. I see the Ladies of the 'Pool, their arms clad in the finest, shimmering samite, upraised, giving us all the finger. I see...I see so much, Joe! Is that the face of my dead father, swimming through the mist? Oh fecking hell no, it's just Peng, again, doing his weird arsed musical number from the Pennsylvania Local School District version of 'Bend It Like Beckham'. Is that a goddamn musical? Why is Peng always crawling all over Posh Spice? It must be... Mythic.

Excuse me, Bugged, while I inform the others of my reaction to your offer: THE LINE FORMS BEHIND ME, YOU BASTARDS! Now, could I get you a drink, or would you like to see my selection of funny hats?

Collage:a technique of composing a work of art by pasting on a single surface various materials not normally associated with one another, as newspaper clippings, parts of photographs, theater tickets, and fragments of an envelope. </font>

Oh, please, Stikky. You don't even know where you are right now.

Oh, now you've done it. You've used the most worthless analogy I could conceive of. Because there's been tons of authors that have written the book that neither the reviewers (that, you should note, is not the same thing as readers; your analogy is flawed, and borders on idiocy), nor their readers wanted to read. And, when their book was poorly received, they threw themselves off a bridge. Are you trying to get the BFC guys to throw themselves off a bridge, you idjit?! I think a better analogy would be the Lucas/Star Wars phenomenon. Because a book can be great, and powerful, and maybe only touch a handful of people, and still be a great book. But my general impression is, we're looking at the reaction to the first Prequel to the Star Wars trilogy, And the first set of movies was flawed, and uneven, but people loved them. But only the freaking fan boys loved the fourth movie. Because, quite frankly, the fourth movie was a horror. AND WHAT WE'RE LOOKING AT, FROM EVERYTHING I READ HERE, IS A LOT OF PEOPLE SHOUTING AT BFC: DID YOU REALLY THINK JAR-JAR-BINKS WAS A GOOD IDEA?! I am an optimist. I believe that they will dance upon the wreckage of this game, and get their ****e together. And what we will see in the future is something better. But, please. Games are popular culture. You're trying to draw an analogy with the concept of 'art'. A book, or a painting, or even a film that no one likes can still be 'art'. But a game that even the fans are unhappy with is just a guy in a funny costume reciting muppet lines in a strange, hybrid rastafarian accent. I look forward to better things.