Seanachai

You want a bird you yodeling yahoo? Raises hands, extending central digits Here's two of them. Knock yourself out. Please. </font>

Boo! Come, My Bird!

Isn't it just a wonderful commentary on American Entertainment that the best goddamn Sci-Fi series ever done was cancelled mid-season, first season, by people who were undoubtedly paid the weight of their own ****e in gold? I can't watch an episode without saying to myself: How truly wonderful. Best damn TV show ever. Cancelled. And it pains me that we live in a Society so weak that not a single Fox Executive was put up against the wall and shot through the fecking lungs. What kind of world is this, anyway?

You know, here's the thing about our Dalem. He loudly proclaims himself to be Mal, when he's clearly a cut-rate Jayne. Worse, he claims to that he's Scott Glenn, when he's so clearly Brian Dennehy... Now, here's the thing, you buggers. Every time Dalem posts, I want you to, always, and without fail, begin any reply with: "You are so Brian Dennehy..." Alternatively, if you are of a more Sci-Fi bent, you may begin with: "You are so Jayne..."

Jayne, the man they call Jayne He robbed from the rich And he gave to the poor Stood up to the man And gave him what for Our love for him now Ain't hard to explain The hero of Canton The man they call Jayne Our Jayne saw the mudders' backs breakin' He heard the mudders' lament And he saw the magistrate takin' Every dollar and leavin' five cents So he said "you can't do that to my people" He said "you can't crush them under your heel" So Jayne strapped on his hat And in 5 seconds flat Stole everythin' Boss Higgins had to steal He robbed from the rich And he gave to the poor Stood up to the man And gave him what for Our love for him now Ain't hard to explain The hero of Canton The man they call Jayne Now here is what separates heroes From common folk like you and I The man they call Jayne He turned 'round his plane And let that money hit sky He dropped it onto our houses He dropped it into our yards The man they called Jayne He stole away our pain And headed out for the stars He robbed from the rich And he gave to the poor Stood up to the man And gave him what for Our love for him now Ain't hard to explain The hero of Canton The man they call Jayne. The Ballad of Jayne

SILENCE, YOU EVIL DWARF! BRING ME...A SAMPO!

SILENCE, YOU EVIL DWARF! BRING ME...A SAMPO!

SILENCE, YOU EVIL DWARF! BRING ME...A SAMPO!

hmm, hmm, hummm, and then you forget the most of the lyrics, and go hmmmm, hmmm, hum hum hum, and then there's almost always a woman who shows up to be really pissed off, and who curses you to the Depths of Hell. And, after an unseemly period of pretending you remember the lyrics, you admit that you're as drunk as a lord, and ask her forgiveness. And then, if there is a God, you get to watch her toss the issue from one part of her soul to another. Doesn't matter what's decided. She has a soul, and you don't. Best you can do, lad, is remember the lyrics... Let me dive into a river of songs Let them rest easy While we right the wrongs of the world Let me hear all the notes played on the scale That were sung long ago In the rain while we waited to dance Let them sing when you play those strings Like the little one dancing And all that romancing Won't you let them sing I have a small friend. Every time I come by, she tells me the latest Rules. Goodness, aren't women a miracle? Let the bravest, then, get up and deny it...

hmm, hmm, hummm, and then you forget the most of the lyrics, and go hmmmm, hmmm, hum hum hum, and then there's almost always a woman who shows up to be really pissed off, and who curses you to the Depths of Hell. And, after an unseemly period of pretending you remember the lyrics, you admit that you're as drunk as a lord, and ask her forgiveness. And then, if there is a God, you get to watch her toss the issue from one part of her soul to another. Doesn't matter what's decided. She has a soul, and you don't. Best you can do, lad, is remember the lyrics... Let me dive into a river of songs Let them rest easy While we right the wrongs of the world Let me hear all the notes played on the scale That were sung long ago In the rain while we waited to dance Let them sing when you play those strings Like the little one dancing And all that romancing Won't you let them sing I have a small friend. Every time I come by, she tells me the latest Rules. Goodness, aren't women a miracle? Let the bravest, then, get up and deny it...

hmm, hmm, hummm, and then you forget the most of the lyrics, and go hmmmm, hmmm, hum hum hum, and then there's almost always a woman who shows up to be really pissed off, and who curses you to the Depths of Hell. And, after an unseemly period of pretending you remember the lyrics, you admit that you're as drunk as a lord, and ask her forgiveness. And then, if there is a God, you get to watch her toss the issue from one part of her soul to another. Doesn't matter what's decided. She has a soul, and you don't. Best you can do, lad, is remember the lyrics... Let me dive into a river of songs Let them rest easy While we right the wrongs of the world Let me hear all the notes played on the scale That were sung long ago In the rain while we waited to dance Let them sing when you play those strings Like the little one dancing And all that romancing Won't you let them sing I have a small friend. Every time I come by, she tells me the latest Rules. Goodness, aren't women a miracle? Let the bravest, then, get up and deny it...

Shall I then expect a Christmas card from you? </font>

Shall I then expect a Christmas card from you? </font>

Shall I then expect a Christmas card from you? </font>

There's a coinky-dink. Bugged does the same thing to me. </font>

There's a coinky-dink. Bugged does the same thing to me. </font>

There's a coinky-dink. Bugged does the same thing to me. </font>

Drunk yet? </font>

Drunk yet? </font>

Drunk yet? </font>

There are three things I truly love. Oh, hell. There are five. You are a complicated tribe of drooling ****ing halfwits. I've known many of you for enough years to love you. I love paddling my kayak over the lakes and rivers of God's Country. I love my friend, Small Emma. I love music, The jolly singsong. I love the fecking Idjits of the Peng Challenge Thread. I love the fact that I hear music when most of you feckers are wondering where you left your pants.

There are three things I truly love. Oh, hell. There are five. You are a complicated tribe of drooling ****ing halfwits. I've known many of you for enough years to love you. I love paddling my kayak over the lakes and rivers of God's Country. I love my friend, Small Emma. I love music, The jolly singsong. I love the fecking Idjits of the Peng Challenge Thread. I love the fact that I hear music when most of you feckers are wondering where you left your pants.

There are three things I truly love. Oh, hell. There are five. You are a complicated tribe of drooling ****ing halfwits. I've known many of you for enough years to love you. I love paddling my kayak over the lakes and rivers of God's Country. I love my friend, Small Emma. I love music, The jolly singsong. I love the fecking Idjits of the Peng Challenge Thread. I love the fact that I hear music when most of you feckers are wondering where you left your pants.

That's cool. When a man sets out to insult a woman, and that man is a man who would stomp upon the testicles of the men who would insult a woman, and that man has been offered a challenge of insulting a woman by the woman, and that man knows, that, come sundown, he's going to have to use all his Powers of Insult to insult a woman who has challenged him to insult her... That is a man who wants to be very, very drunk. I am that man. drum roll, mexican trumpets, rapid strumming of guitars Ah, Kitty. So, you have returned. Once again, you strut and posture amongst us, eh? You mock, you deride, you call into question the manhood of all the hidalgos who post here. You bring with you your little hangers-on, your lap-dogs from the Goodaler thread, like flammenwerfer. Your poodles. We don't need no stinking poodles.

That's cool. When a man sets out to insult a woman, and that man is a man who would stomp upon the testicles of the men who would insult a woman, and that man has been offered a challenge of insulting a woman by the woman, and that man knows, that, come sundown, he's going to have to use all his Powers of Insult to insult a woman who has challenged him to insult her... That is a man who wants to be very, very drunk. I am that man. drum roll, mexican trumpets, rapid strumming of guitars Ah, Kitty. So, you have returned. Once again, you strut and posture amongst us, eh? You mock, you deride, you call into question the manhood of all the hidalgos who post here. You bring with you your little hangers-on, your lap-dogs from the Goodaler thread, like flammenwerfer. Your poodles. We don't need no stinking poodles.