Seanachai

Yeah, yeah, I'm pretty sure I once assured your mother that you'd grow up to almost as normal as 'all the other kids'. I wouldn't mind if you'd give me a hand up on this, and stop posting as though you'd discovered the ability to post while exploring whether a Google search on 'Are Finns As Completely Fecking Stupid As the Post-War Era Would Seem to Indicate?' You feckers are living at the arse end of Scandinavia. You've got cell phones, Tom O' Finland, and the end of the Cold War going for you. That's a pretty mixed bag, and I'm telling you that from the perspective of the nation that is still trying to shake George W. Bush off its arse. Christ, I hate foreigners.

I'd put money on the fact that Dalem is passed out on the floor and Seanachai is licking Dalem's face while wearing a red-pointy hat.......and nothing else. </font>

Maybe he is threatening to sing a jolly singsong and make you wear a red pointy hat if you don't let him? </font>

You don't deserve a Sampo, you feck! konrad is my illegitimate Polish...I'm not sure what our relationship would be. All I know is that he's illegitimate. Now, I think it is still only right that someone, preferably a goddamn Finn, BRING ME A SAMPO! Look forward to more posts from Dalem and myself. I am at his home...or rather, warren, for drinks, food and entertainment. And it is still early.

They showed me your family seat. It didn't look comfortable, but the bar that dropped over your ancestor's feet looked well-worn, and it was advantageously placed so that all the other villagers could pelt them with offal as they sat there locked down...

I went to Ireland, and the kayaking season has opened. Stay tuned. I think there's another Small Emma story in the offing. But not tonight. I'm fecking tired. The bastards have employed me, again. God, is there never to be any rest for the wicked?

That's just...sodding beautiful, man. It's so wonderfully coherent/incoherent that it's like hearing the silences between each peal of a bell of weirdness. "gargoyled basement"? "Unexpected acid run with Da Vinci"? I am never actually sure what the hell you're talking about, but I don't care. There is a poetry to it. I am casting my brain about it. A gargoyled basement. It sings. Just so you know, you Polish lunatic, I will be shamelessly stealing anything you post that I think I can use in my own march towards the Apocalypso. The Peng Challenge Thread should be a Graphic Novel.

Boo! I know that you have been waiting, patient and loyal as Penelope, though far less appealing, for my return. Send cattle and sheep to slaughter, Oh Boo! Set the meat to roasting over the open fires, and broach the casks of wine and ale! Like Odysseus I have come back across the wine dark seas. Let Joe rise from his place by the fire and, on shaky paws, make his way to my side to fawn over me and whine with happiness at my return. Fetch me my bow, oh Boo! Traditionally, at moments like this, I will be required to wreak havoc and slaughter on any number of drunken, arrogant lackwits. So let's get to it. Who needs my special attention?

Sorry, but I am. Ask any of the Celtic Illuminati - oh, that's right. You can't, because they'll simply deny ever having heard of me (not unlike a number of women over the years who had briefly thrown over intelligence for passion). And then the kelly green helicopters will show up at your place late at night. In the morning you'll wonder why it hurts when you take a ****e and why your underwear is made of some weird synthetic substance and why you've decided to get a plane ticket to Vatican City and you'll be wondering about the slip of paper in your wallet with the name of an illicit gun dealer in Italy and as you accept a white wine from the stewardess you'll think to yourself that Ratzinger has lived too long already. And as you close your eyes to stop the throbbing in your head and consider how best to take the high-powered rifle with scope that you've realized you have to buy from the man whose name and number are on the slip of paper in your wallet out into the countryside in order to make sure it's properly sighted in, you'll have a brief, lucid moment in which you'll think to yourself: I should never have doubted that Seanachai had become King of Ireland.

I am returned. But I am no longer the man you once knew. I have been reborn, made new, changed beyond all recognition. During my sojourn to the Emerald Isle, a secret, and possibly heretical ritual was held at the Guinness Brewery, and the annoying bog-trotters of that distant land made me their King. Despite the fact that they all mumble, talk too fast, and apparently think that Minnesota is a province of Canada (and they're a little shaky on where the hell Canada is, on top of everything else; for the most part the only place in the New World they seem to be familiar with away from the Eastern seaboard is Chicago, and all discussions of 'where something is in North America' have to be conducted in terms of direction and miles from Chicago. Possibly it is a Berli thing), I have graciously agreed to be the secret, unspoken King of Ireland. Of course I agreed to tell no one of this, but telling you lot is like telling a cat or a dog. Except that the average cat or dog might actually have a glimmer of intelligence, but fortunately their lack of language would prevent them from giving away my secret. You lot of tossers have (shudder) 'the gift of language', but fortunately you're all such a shower of idiocy that you could spout my secrets to the entire world and the only result would be that you'd get whacked with a stick by whatever poor bastard you were spraying with spittle. The symbol of my Monarchy is a Harp within a Kayak. It's beautiful in Minnesota. I've been out on the lakes twice in two days, paddling my kayak. When I came in from the lake, I signed the first in a series of secret directives that will purge Catholicism from Ireland and return the entire island to paganism within the next ten years. Go ahead, call one of the news agencies. It's probably been almost an hour since you silly sods were whacked with a stick.

Boo! I'm off to see the world again. Fecking world. Back in 10 days or so, but I could die. If I die, you coc- you load of fetid dingoes kidneys will probably never know. I had an agreement with my sister Kat that she would show up here, and let everyone know that I was dead, and say something significant about 'My Life'. But then she died, of course, and left me without anyone who cared enough to laugh. I miss her. We had an agreement, you know. My part was, I make sure that her wishes were observed. That I wouldn't let her be kept on life support long past the point where anything could be done. Normally I whine like a child about her in September, when she died. Sigh...it's funny how things will take you. And when. Boo Radley! If I should die while overseas, I want you to put the boot in.

yes , it is funnilly hollow </font>

How to put this... Unemployed again. On the road to Ireland. Some ligament damage. Hope it doesn't affect the new paddling season. Bugs me that my left arm won't work right. I'll try to post again, before I head across the ocean. Nothing's gone right, lately. A lot of pain.

Gentlemen, I come before you tonight to announce -- ... ... Wait a minute. These are not my pants. I don't know where these came from. Now how the hell could that happen? You know, things are just starting to get very strange. I will be back after certain...issues have been resolved.

I am an annoying jester. And I began this Thread as a jest. But I have very much enjoyed the recent posts by Nidan and NG Cavscout. Because this Thread has become much more to me than simply the means by which I might gain some sort of acceptance in the Combat Mission community by kicking sand at MrPeng. For one thing, it's been fecking years since kicking sand at Peng has been novel. And because I've been here long enough to put 'gaining acceptance' into a proper perspective. I have abused a great number of people, Peoples, places, countries, counties, States, States, things, concepts, ideologies, more people, and even some members of the Animal Kingdom. And I do not plan to stop. But what I enjoy the most, here, are the True things I am told. I hate each and every one of you here in a manner so thorough, so intense, and so personal, that if I was not here to explain to you the nature of my hatred, it might be mistaken for love. Tomorrow night I get to go over and play with my Small Friend Emma. Lately, she's been making me wear the annoying red hat, and three, count them THREE pairs of children's weird throw-away sunglasses. I have to force them onto my face. And even then, I have to wear them in a sort of tiered terrace effect. I can barely see when I get them all thrust on to my face, so I have to move around very slowly. If I take one or more pairs off to see what the hell is going on, she looks at me and says 'Grandma Steve, please put on all the glasses'. And when I do, she says 'That's good. You look very funny.' Her dad walked by me the other day when I was trying to negotiate my way to the bathroom, and said 'Oh, sorry, Sir Elton. I didn't mean to bump in to you.' Christ, I don't even look like the young Elton John. I look disturbingly like the Elderly Elton John. Disturbingly.

Before or after he's finished running a loop round to immobilize the back legs?

I've been banned. You were 'close to being banned'. I was banned for being angry and out-spoken. You were 'close to being banned' for being an annoying, useless, dickless little pissant. I was banned for cursing out a poster who was basically a bigot. You were 'close to being banned' for being a goddamn bigot. I guess, if you're going to pull your 'accomplishment' out and wave it proudly around, my only comment would be: Mine's bigger. Pissant.

It may just be my completely realistic and internationally accepted hatred of Australians talking, or it may be the beer, but I think Stuka needs a right good kicking. Who's with me then, eh?

Dear gods...what did I ingest last night? Christ, I hope I wasn't posting, again. That almost never works out well. I'd get up and find a box knife to open the top of my head, if the thought of it didn't make me feel like the top would come off while the bottom dropped out of the other end... Dammit, I think I did post. I remember some sort of exchange with the fecking Justicar...did I take on a Squire? Goddamn Joe and his endless pissing on about...something...anything...something? rolls over in bed Oh Dear God. I think I crawled into bed with Sturmy. HEY! TAKE MY UNDERWEAR OFF YOUR HEAD, YOU FECKING BELGIAN BASTARD! DON'T MAKE ME GO ANN COULTER ON YOUR ASS! Perhaps I could re-phrase that...

SILENCE, MY ILLEGITIMATE FINNISH CHILD! FETCH ME... A SAMPO!

Well, I don't know. I think the cops should have shot you.

Out of what orifice?

...and Green Tea. But we won't dwell on that. Caffeine makes me jittery. Now, how are we to make Sturmsebber a Real Boy?!

Big pink capsules that no one seemed to know exactly what they were or where they came from, small white diet pills that they kept claiming were speed but were complete ****e, Fastin, those strange black capsules that you found on the floor of the bar when you were sweeping up, absinthe...

Hashish, opium, dilaudid ground up fine, sieved and snorted, crystal meth, dexedrine, psilocybin, ether, marijuana, qualudes, stelazine, thorazine, valium, seconal...