Seanachai

And you made a complete fecking dog's dinner of that game, you tosser. You're going to complain about the map?! You had two Churchill Crocodiles. You used them like they were attached to your hands, and you wanted to masturbate. I've never seen a worse handling of armour. I never knocked out either one. The best I did was immobilize both of them at the goddamn TOP of a hill, overlooking all my defenses. I managed that through the sheer freaking guts and determination of the dozen units I sent against them. Your entire infantry assault followed the Churchills to the top of the ridge/hill. Your immobilized flame-tanks were still in a position to dominate the entire hilltop. I shattered your assault with artillery, suicidal infantry squads that risked the flame-arcs of your immobilized Churchills, and your own lack of will. Do you hear me, Dorosh? You lost that game because you lacked the will to win. That is why, despite your untold goddamn thousands of posts, your vast, encyclopedic, and often annoying knowledge, your endless participation, your actual contributions, and your heartfelt wish to be the 'Master', you will always be my bitch. Well, that and the fact that I am usually funnier than you are. And, despite the fact that we are both complete arseholes, I'm actually better liked. I'll grant you, it's hard to pinpoint exactly why that is. But I am. Of course, I'm starting to wear thin. Whereas dislike for you is a constant in the Universe, like gravity.

You know, have any of most of you lot of piddlers played Berli? Probably not. So you've not been subjected to his patented 'Wow! I think they're crucifying Jesus down there! Let's kick out all the stops and get down there for good seats! Hell, you know what? I've got a hammer!' approach to play...

I don't recall getting a setup from you, so I guess WE don't owe you a turn </font>

He does. He has. I got some, once. It was good. Not great. He sent me ginger mead, and I'm not a fan of ginger. I didn't tell him that, of course. He might not have sent the mead. I imagine that, as ginger mead goes, it was probably pretty damn good. Maybe even great. But, ginger? Bah! I imagine that, someday, when his son is 5 or 6, and tells Roger that he had 'the strangest dream', in which he saw Mommy lying on her back, smiling at the sun, and he saw Daddy smiling, standing over her with the sun behind him, and then he was riding on a roller coaster, swooping and rushing forward, and then, just when he started to get scared because all the other roller coaster cars were rushing together and crowding each other to go through the gate, and that all the other cars were empty, and he could see Mommy waiting anxiously for him to get there, a smiling, white-haired, short, stout man appeared and took his hand, and said 'Never fear, lad. Yer father's a rat bastard conservative, but he's a friend of mine, and I'm here to get you home', and then the strange man led him up to his mother, and his Mom bestowed upon the whimsical, unkempt man a special smile of understanding and appreciation, and then found that his Mom was hugging him tightly, and then he woke up, and wondered if his Dad was still making mead, and if he was, then the short, whimsical man who seemed to make his Mom so happy should get some... Well, I imagine that at that point in time, that useless feck Rleete will send me some more mead. Nothing with ginger. Raspberry, perhaps. Or any of the citrus fruits.

I have no problem with things going into the gutter. I've been to the gutter, and it's no more hideous than a weekend inside my head. But this conversation has descended to the playground. You little bastards can get caught up on how you're never going to make it through fifth period later, when your testicles descend. NG Cavscout...you make me sad. You have encouraged this bit of 'my folks won't let me text message anymore, so let's go to the Peng Challenge Thread to chat before we use our cell phones to send each other pictures of us touching ourselves.' You're supposed to be a mentor to people like fecking Stoat. Not someone lulling them into a delusional state about how 'today they are a man, now put on the Calvin Kleins and mount the ladder. No turn around for the camera'.

There were four references at the end of that last post. I'll make the first person who can identify them all to me in an email a Senior Knight of the Peng Challenge Thread.

Dalem. Canada. August 23-26. Tell your Evil Masters that you will be gone. Looks like my 'handfast maiden' and her boyfriend will be going up. Talk to the dog-sitters. Dogs fecked the Pope, no fault of mine...I think I'm losing a button on my trousers...you wouldn't want my trousers to fall down, would you? Bang! goes another kanga on the bonnet of the van...It's Sharky's Day!

Who's for a jolly singsong, then, eh? When your mother sends back all your invitations And your father to your sister he explains That you're tired of yourself and all of your creations Won't you come see me, Queen Jane? Won't you come see me, Queen Jane? Now when all of the flower ladies want back what they have lent you And the smell of their roses does not remain And all of your children start to resent you Won't you come see me, Queen Jane? Won't you come see me, Queen Jane? Now when all the clowns that you have commissioned Have died in battle or in vain And you're sick of all this repetition Won't you come see me, Queen Jane? Won't you come see me, Queen Jane? When all of your advisers heave their plastic At your feet to convince you of your pain Trying to prove that your conclusions should be more drastic Won't you come see me, Queen Jane? Won't you come see me, Queen Jane? Now when all the bandits that you turned your other cheek to All lay down their bandanas and complain And you want somebody you don't have to speak to Won't you come see me, Queen Jane? Won't you come see me, Queen Jane? Queen Jane Approximately -Bob Dylan

Yeah. Holy crazzapy. The majorist bridge in town looks like a giant stick of gum laid scross the water in pieces. Still kickin', Seanachai, still kickin'. </font>

I will do what any man would do, who has suddenly been confronted with the fact that simple coincidence has spared him. I'm going to go play 'Barbies' tomorrow night. My Barbie will have a lot of cynical, ironical things to say. At some point, one of her legs will fall off. Everyone will look askance while I work 'under the glittery dress' to make things aright. Actually, I rather enjoy that part. Reminds me of when I was a young man. Well, not the 'leg falling off' bit. More the 'fumbling around under the glittery dress' part. But, as Denny Crane knows, there's nothing like a one-legged woman...

Well, well. My very good friend, Small Emma, turned 4 yesterday. We had lunch. Her Mom drove out to my workplace (fecking Eden Prairie, which, after Woodbury, is the place most likely in Minnesota to harbour the local Hellmouth), and we went to a family restaurant nearby. So now I will tell you the Tale of Small Emma Who Is Four (But Only When She Goes to Bed). I have now known Small Emma for Four Years. That is a significant period for me, and a lifetime to her. At this juncture, it is time for us all to reflect. At the end of Four Years, I have become the 'voice' for a soft toy dog, a knock-off Barbie, and innumerable inanimate objects that my small, animist friend has decided should be part of our round of play. I have fought pirates, monsters, Medusa, spiders, snakes, sharks, broken robots, ladybugs and squirrels. I have tried to throw leaves back up onto the trees because they needed to 'go home'. I have removed something on the order of four dozen insects from all sorts of places because 'they should not be there', all without actually killing the damn things. At least not while anyone was looking. A certain number of ants, spiders and other inconvenient bugs aren't ever going to be joyfully welcomed home, because no one was watching when I 'sent them home to be with their family and friends'. I have learned to be the perfect, parfait minion. I have learned to tread that treacherous line between being the large, thuggish henchman of an imperious child, while supporting her Mom on 'issues of importance'. I have agonized over issues of ethics and morality in situations where my normal instinct would have been to put my underwear on my head and laugh at people who wondered why my pants were down around my ankles. I have learned that anything I say is heard. And while that normally would gratify me, it is damn hard to leap straight up into the air and disappear when a small, sweet voice is repeating over and over 'Jesus Christ, Mommy, how are you going to get all that stuff in there?' or 'Holy crap, isn't there any more rum?' I have had to deal with Henchman's Blame. Such as when, her father having told her that she can't play outside, she tells him 'Daddy, you're a Loser!', and then tells her Dad, when questioned sternly about it: 'that's what Grandma Steve says'. As God is my witness, I never in my entire life have called her Dad a loser. I have, quite possibly, called any number of other people 'losers' while she was, well, near by, but how was I to know that she would be able to put the insult into operation under other circumstances? Children make you realize how stupid you are. She is only four. But when we had lunch the other day, and I told her 'Emma, today you are four!' she said 'Yes, I am. But not until I go to bed.' Because, you see, she knew that her mother had told her she was born at 11 PM. And so, she wouldn't actually be four until after she'd gone to bed that night. Frankly, most of you lot still aren't capable of that level of reasoning. And she is becoming more wild. When we left the family restaurant, after lunch, she wanted to run across the parking lot to the car. But she knew that she had to hold someone's hand when she was out where cars were. And my goddamn heart is in my throat, when she runs where there are cars. But she took my hand, and shouted, 'Come, my bird!' And we ran across the parking lot, me looking frantically for cars in all directions, running bent over like a big freaking goof, holding her hand, going 'Yes, my princess! Caw, caw!' The other day, she didn't want to eat any more dinner. And her Mom told her, 'Emma, you have to eat all your pasta'. And she stuck out her chin, and rounded on her Mom, and gave her 'the combative look of you're not the boss of me'. I have known her Mom for something like 12 years, now. Even dead drunk, I would NOT give her Mom that look. I'm a quiet, gentle, peaceful man. I do NOT leap from a tree onto the back of a tigress and shout 'yee-haa!' And her Mom tells her: Emma! Don't you give me that look! Are you giving me that look?! You stop giving your mother that look right now! (Imagine, if you can, a Sergeant Major shouting 'Are you eye-balling me, recruit!') And Emma, who learned the damn look from her Mom, realizes that she's about to get into trouble. But she doesn't know what to do. She doesn't know how to 'stop giving someone that look', because she doesn't know what 'that look' is. She's doing it, but, as God is her witness, she doesn't know how to 'stop' it. Enter Henchman Grandma Steve, who is sitting beside her, with indrawn breath, who can only think to whisper 'Emma, smile, honey!' The only way to dispense with the look that you're doing instinctively is to replace it with something you know how to do, up front. It's pretty damn cute, from the side-lines, to watch a wee bonny tyke glare angrily at her Mom, who is returning her pugnacious look with interest, and think 'Wow! stubborn person stands face to face with stubborn person, and one shock of recognition runs the whole circle round!' But I need her to stop eye-balling her Mom, or neither one of us is going to get a lemon popsicle...

Dalem: Good tea. Nice Thread.

Just so people know, the loss of life, so far as we know right now, still seems to be unusually small. But this is a major road, and a major commuting route, through the Twin Cities. There are frantic phone calls being made all over town, tonight, to make sure friends and family are all right. For anyone who lives in the Twin Cities, anyone they know could have been on that bridge. In town, they actually asked people to refrain from using their cell phones so as to not interfere with Emergency Response and police and fire units. The only reason, frankly, that the death toll seems to be as low as it is, is that because the bridge was being worked on traffic was slow; a lot of traffic that would have otherwise been on the bridge was elsewhere. Otherwise the death toll might well be in the dozens, or more, rather than the 6 that were 'known' when I got home...

I've drunk with Shaw, had him in my home, fed him my lamb stew, picked up the goddamn silverware the halfwit dumped all over my kitchen floor, exchanged emails that ranged from 'agonized weirdness' to 'humourous weirdness' with him, played games against the man, wondered about his mental stability and emotional health while reassuring him that if I was ever going to kill anybody, he'd only be there to hold the bone saws and cinch up the closures on the garbage bags. When I 'hate' Joe Shaw, I hate the man, himself. I hate him with a purity and an understanding that is never going to be realized by a lot of tetchy arseholes on the Outerboards. Most of whom aren't fit to pour the piss out Shaw's boots, and who could only benefit by drinking the piss out of mine. That said, I wish that the busy round of being fecked by the Universe would allow me to journey to Utah so that I might spend a week or two suddenly popping up in unexpected places and whacking Joe with a baseball bat. Not hard enough to break bones, you know. Just hard enough so that he'd know he'd been kissed.

Oh, and Lars. I noticed there was no phone call from you, you bastard. What is it, boy? Are you angry with me for some reason, or do you figure that if I kack you'll be allowed to keep my copy of the first season of 'Rome'? You won't, you know. My Operatives will retrieve it from you. And some of them...are Dalem.

Weird. A friend and I met tonight for dinner and drinks, and we were going to go up by the Seven corners neighbourhood. But then, at the last minute, she calls and says 'let's go to some place more over by you'. So we went to Cafe Barbette. Spent a ****load of money, but had a great time. It was Lugnasad, so I convinced her, in keeping with the Celtic Holiday, that we should make a 'trial handfast', whereby we would be considered married for a year and a day, and if we decided it wasn't working, we could call it off. She drank of my wine, and took my hand, and I put a wreath of flowers upon her head, and we danced, and afterwards I told her that, according to the marriage ceremony of the Triumph Moon settles and the ancient Celts, we were now made one flesh, for a year and a day. And then she drove me home, and went to tell her boyfriend, my buddy Andy, that we would have to get together for some discussions on how to handle our new status. And when I got home, there was half a dozen messages from friends saying 'Please call me right away and let me know you're okay!' Well, of course I did have a glass of port with dessert, and my health isn't what it once was, but I thought it a bit odd. So I called my friend Jen, the mother of Small Emma, and she told me 'Thank God you're all right!' So it turns out the 35W bridge over the Mississippi suddenly collapsed tonight. This is a MAJOR freaking bridge and roadway through Minneapolis. It is right where my friend and I were going to go for dinner and drinks. I made damn good time from work, so if I'd been going up there instead of where we met, I might well have been there around the wrong time. Certainly she would have been. It just goes to show you. A man who is destined to die while watching everyone else being hung is never going to die by drowning.

Sigh. A 'war' set in Syria...no Mac version...I thought only the Government no longer cared about the people... I hear you were singing a song of the past I see no tears I know that you know it may be the last For many a year You'd gamble or give anything To be in with,the better half But how many friends must I have To begin with, to make you laugh Will you still have a song to sing When the razor boy comes And takes your fancy things away Will you still be singing it On that cold and windy day? Your position has made your proud, Joe. And cruel. Nothing, then, for the little people? I will diminish, and go into the West, and remain Seanachai.

Who are you? Why is the room all bendy? Why aren't you worshipping me? I demand an AK setup from you now. Seanachai! Who is this creature? </font>

Only REAL men with REAL computers are allowed to play the game. Take your namby-pamby artistic Mac and go ... paint pretty pictures of flowers or something. Joe </font>

Man, I hate you guys... Where the hell is everyone?

Some help here, you lot. I'm trying to negotiate the Board to check into ordering the game or downloading the Demo, but I can't find the link for the Mac version. I keep being taken to the 'Windows XP' version. What's the deal?

If you were nailing her... how did you keep her from deflating? </font>

I remember nailing my first girlfriend repeatedly under that poster. </font>

And when I sobe--when I returned, I found that my arrogant and unmitigatedly vile attempt to seize control of the next incarnation of the Thread had failed. FAILED! SHUT DOWN BY SOME NAMELESS FUNCTIONARY OF THE BATTLEFRONT.COM CONSPIRACY! IT WAS NOT TO BE BORNE! I SWORE A MIGHTY OATH THAT I WOULD NEVER POST HERE AGAIN! Of course, after about 15 minutes and another beer, I started to get...bored. I mean, self-righteous rage is great if you're a suicide bomber, but on a Friday night with nothing but broadcast tv to engage your interest? I think not. I'd happily assume a position of 'wrathful smiting', and destroy the vile creature that calls itself Joe Shaw...but it's hot. Damned hot, and sticky. When it's this hot and humid, the best I can maintain is a weak and petulant anger. And I'm not running with that, you get fecking awful prose with weak and petulant anger. Hardly worth the typing. So, do any of you lot besides that wanker Sir Sir Real have the game yet? Do you know, when I was talking to Berli the other night, he didn't believe Sir Real was a knight. Kept asking if he wasn't a Waffler. Do we have any challenges regarding the new game yet? From what I can make out on the Outerboards, it's out now and in general distribution. Damn, job is going away, and another thing I'll have to find money for. Oh, well, I guess I'll put off buying that solid gold cigar cutter with the titanium blades I was looking at in the Haliburton Gear catalogue. I'd had my heart set on snipping my next Onyx Churchill with 'the Cheney', as that model is called. But I guess it'll have to wait. The nice thing about my current contract is, the fools were paying me a sodding fortune. And, since I never trusted them, I've only spent several thousand dollars on kayak gear. Damn...I should check to see when was the last time I paid utilities, and such. I know I finally paid the phone bill over the phone with a credit card. They were going to disconnect me, and that would mean I wouldn't know when Boo sent me the set-up he owes me.

You buggers aren't fooling anyone, you know. Master Goodale is not simply dead, he's decayed. We're more likely to see the Second Coming of Jesus in my lifetime than another post by Master Goodale. Our pantheon, such as it is, is pretty much still all here. On and off. From time to time. Sometimes, even sober.