Seanachai

It's Seanachai</font>

It's Seanachai</font>

It's Seanachai</font>

to bear down on the pillow until that bugger Dorosh stops flopping about and clutching at my wrists...

Do you lot know that, when I left college, the world was full of promise. Primarily, of course, it seemed the promise of more drugs and alcohol, but promise none the less. But the reality of growing old and earning a living has both beaten me to my knees, and reassured me that you have to make your own fun. The other day I was trying to cope with the fact that the company I am currently indentured to has acquired a complete piece of crap property that is standing empty, and requires nothing more than that the few bills still associated with it get paid. And one of those bills is a telecomm bill for the alarm lines that the Monitoring company uses, with Vendor X. And what I was trying to do was simply get Vendor X to send the bills to our office, so that we could pay them. They were still sending them to the previous property management office, a Mom&Pop operation that was fired from the account when the property went into receivership. And the delay between when Vendor X sent the bills to people that no longer gave a good goddamn about the bills until when they actually made their way to our office and got paid was causing Vendor X (a large, national Telecomm company) to whine like a four year old with an anal infection. So I called Customer Support. And I got 'Deb'. I explained to 'Deb' that I needed to change the billing address on the account, and gave her the property address, and the account number, and various other account related details. And after the usual long lags while someone who is trying to deal with customers and putting up with the necessity of waiting while a large computer system slowly and often at random coughs up the correct information, asks me: Deb: And who are you sir? 'Deb' sounds like she is in her late 50s, and has had a life filled with disappointments. A life filled with men who promised her much, but left her sad and slightly afraid of the world. Deb sounds like fussiness and unhappiness are the only defense she has left against a world that has done nothing but let her down. Seanachai: My name is Steve. I'm calling on behalf of the Property Manager, for the Owner. Deb: I see. And are you the 'Decision Maker'? Seanachai: You mean, like George W? The Decider? Deb: I mean, sir, who is the 'Decision Maker'? I'm starting to feel a little weirded out. Like there's some sort of 'in code' thing going on here that I may be giving the wrong answers to, and which could result in the destruction of an American town if I don't start giving the right responses. Seanachai: Well, the 'Decision Maker' would probably be our Senior Property Manager, Chris B. Deb: I see. And your name again? Seanachai: I haven't had time to change it since you first asked, but my full name is Steve Pemble. Deb: I see. Sir, the problem I have here is that neither of those names are listed as 'Decision Makers'. Son of a bitch. There goes Cleveland. Seanachai: Uh, Deb, who IS listed as the Decision Maker? Deb: The name I have here is Kathy W. Seanachai: Well, Deb, there's the problem. That's the previous Property Manager, and she and her company have been fired from this account by the Ownership (notice the lovely way I deal with the appropriate jargon?). WE are the NEW Property Managers. Deb: Yes sir. I understand. But you see, neither of the names you've given me are listed as 'Decision Makers'. Seanachai: No, Deb. They aren't on the list. But no decision needs to be made about the Account. We're not canceling it, we're not changing the nature of the service, we're not doing anything to the account. We just want you to send the bills to us, so that you get paid on time. Deb: Well, you see, sir, we cannot change anything regarding the account without authorization from a 'Decision Maker'. you can hear the capitals every time she says it Seanachai: Well, then, Deb, how do you think you're going to get paid? Deb: Sir, we cannot change anything regarding the account without authorization from a 'Decision Maker'. Seanachai: Okay, Deb, your 'Decision Maker' was a woman who runs a Self Store It facility who was paying the bills for this property part time, and has nothing to do with the account anymore. Now, you can continue to send the bills to her address, and she will, if you are very lucky, eventually send them on to us, but your company keeps insisting on charging us a 'late payment' fee, and we're not going to pay you a 'late payment' fee when you insist on sending the bills to the wrong freaking address. Deb: Sir, you have to understand, I cannot make changes to this account without authorization from a 'Decision Maker'. Seanachai: Fine. How do we change the 'Decision Maker', Deb? Deb: Well, sir, I could fax you the 'Change of Decision Maker' forms, and you could fax them back to us. Seanachai: So...you won't simply change the billing address on my say-so, but you'll fax me some form that will allow me to make any changes I want to the account, and all I have to do is fill it out and fax it back? Deb: Yes, sir. Because then you would be the 'Decision Maker'. Seanachai: And you don't see any logical inconsistencies with that position? Deb; What? Seanachai: Never mind. Here's our fax number, Deb. And the forms were faxed to me, and I wrote down that my boss, Chris B., was now to be considered the Alpha Male regarding this account, able to make every decision and leap tall buildings with a single bound. And I faxed them back. A few weeks later, we again got the bill forwarded to us from the previous property manager, along with the whiny bitch letters from Vendor X about late payment. And I swung into action. I called up, and told Customer Service that I wished to change the Billing Address. I got Sheila. She asked me: Sheila: Are you the 'Decision Maker' on this account, sir? Seanachai: No! But I know the 'Decision Maker'. He is a close personal friend of mine, and, I'm told, a hell of a dancer. His name is Chris B. Sheila: Yes, sir. I see from the account information that Chris B. is the 'Decision Maker'. We will need him to authorize the change of address for billing. Seanachai: I am calling on his behalf to make this change. Sheila: Yes, sir. But we need him the 'Decision Maker', to authorize the change. Seanachai: Look, for Chrissake, all we want to do is pay the damn bills! Sheila: I realize that, sir, but we cannot make a change to the Account without Authorization from the 'Decision Maker'. It's starting to sound like a religious reformation. Seanachai: Alright. Hold on one moment. And then I put the phone on hold for the time it took me to read a news story about how Ohioans lead the nation in unregistered weapons in their cars. Then I picked up the phone, and, without changing my voice or manner of speaking in any way, I said: Seanachai: Sheila? This is Chris B! Sheila: Yes sir. How can I help you today? Seanachai: My minion, Steve, informs me that you need my authorization to change the billing address on our account. I can do that, you know! I am a 'Decision Maker'! Sheila: Yes, sir. And what do you want the address changed to? Seanachai: Change the billing address to xyz! long pause Sheila: Okay, sir. I see from our records that you are the 'Decision Maker' for this account. So we have updated the billing address as you requested. Seanachai: Ahahahahaha! Very good, Sheila! But why stop there?! I am the Decision Maker! I will provide you with a list of our enemies, and I request that you do everything in your power to do them harm, even unto their death! Sheila: I'm sorry sir, that is not an option on this account. Seanachai: No? What a pity! But I am the Decision Maker! Could I not change the Account to make it an option?! Sheila: Sir, we cannot provide that kind of option. Seanachai: Ha! Then we shall have to satisfy ourselves with getting your bills in a timely fashion. Sheila. Thank you, sir. Is there anything else we can help you with today? Seanachai: No, not if you refuse to chastise and destroy my enemies. Sheila: Then thank you, and have a nice day.

That fecking Speedy. wipes a tear from an eye Could there be a more archetypal Australian?!

This I will not abide ... the CORRECT quote, from the lips of our own MrPeng is ... and I QUOTE ... UNQUOTE A feast he says ... there can be any number of feasts which do NOT feature pork, but without pork there can be no breakfast. Amend your statement at once sirrah, AT ONCE I say. Joe </font>

It will not happen. Although I admit that, for one vomitive moment there when Lars, Wildman and Abbot were all posting excitedly about their strap-ons, it did look as though every 'Marry Your Own Cousin Here' Protestant church near a trailer park had let out at once after the minister gave an excited sermon about his recent experience blessing the vehicles at a monster truck rally. It's a form of rebellion. Since they can no longer simply flip to the 'fair and balanced' Fox News Channel in order to register their vote to "Cast America Into the Arms of Satan", they tend to spend a lot of time brooding over whether their vehicles shout 'FECK YOU' loud enough to be heard by people who simply want to drive from Point A to B without having to apply a ruler to their penis in order to tell if enough towel-heads have been put on notice that 'there's no way this sonofabitch can tear chunks out of that dead donkey without a goddamn NAME engine mounted in it, you Muslim arseholes, pardon my American, so besides gettin' over Mohammed, you're going to have put up with the fact that MY AMERICA NEEDS A GALLON FOR EVERY 17 MILES I DRIVE. It's okay, though. Usually they're going to the store for chips and more beer. Bad beer. Cheese flavored Doritos. The Death of God. They're the salt of the earth. I honour them.

I abase myself in my contrition for having been...'away' during this most noteworthy and propitious occasion. By which I hope it is understood that I stand ready, if the insurance policy is large enough, to whack Boo Radley if it means that the Fair Rose will enjoy a better, richer and happier life without Boo than she currently does with him still shambling about the place and looking a bit vague. Happy belated Birthday, Lady Rose. Seriously. Get him to up the life insurance coverage. Other than the wonderful 'I love him' factor, he's pretty much got to be worth more dead than alive.

In the Celtic world, Heroes battled, and raided, and they stole women and cattle. But they ate Pork at the Victory Feast. Because they knew, for it to be Truly a Feast: Pigs Must Die. Never again seek to torment Peng with references to the unnatural horrors of the 'McRib'. Or I will curse you to an eternity of Phillips Vodka without any application to gout medication, you wanker.

You know, of course, that I think you're an idjit But just lately, reading your halfwit posts is starting to fill that hollow place inside that longs for me to re-read Joyce's "Ulysses". Now, if you could just wear the flower in your hair like the Andalusian girls and make me hear 'A screaming comes across the sky' in a Pynchonesque post ala "Gravity's Rainbow", I might make a place for you in my Mythology. Joyce and Pynchon. Cuchalainn and Odysseus. Pogues and Loreena McKennitt. You fools want such a lot of instruction.

I have lived a long time, as these things go. I am, at one and the same time, more amazingly weird than all but a few of you could truly appreciate, and yet stunningly normal. I am not sure that I will ever truly understand, or appreciate, what you just posted.

There are few enough men these days, Boo, who will take the time, and be honest enough, to share a cigar...a glass of scotch...or their feelings with you. That is why I always look forward to our posts, here, on the Thread of threads. I treasure these times, oh Boo. The dismissive jibes of Berli, the cranky humour of Peng; the pontificating of Joe Shaw, that casts a glow of the ephemeral over even a mound of ****e; the merry bleating of the Aussies. And that online touch to the shoulder, that gentle reassurance that, if the yard is clean of dog**** and there isn't a single cable channel on planet earth currently showing re-runs of 'F-Troop', that you'll be by my side... Well, Boo, that means all the world to me. You know, if there is a Just and Righteous God, I will be visited upon each and every one of you lot of complete fecking tossers between now and when you die.

Who were you chiding? Me or Lars? I assure you that my joke was a born-and-bred in Minnesota joke, and that my understated and subtle Squarehead accent was a 100% accurate representation of how Twin Cities Squareheads like Lars sound who are only two house payments away from living in their bloody ice-fishing shacks year round. Of course, anything you had to say about Joe Shaw was undoubtedly uncalled for and out of line. Unless, of course, you were simply echoing, in your simple, all but pre-sentient Australian way, something I've already said about him.

You couldn't tell a joke if the fate of your prostate was riding on it. There's nothing worse on this planet than a Squarehead trying to tell a Squarehead joke. Horrible. It's like watching the Humor equivalent of a racist lynching...

So, one day Lars goes out fishing with his cousin, and they really hit into them. They got some panfish, and some bass, and even an eelpout that Lars was amusing himself with, letting it wrap around his arm while he was steering the boat back to the dock, eh? And Lars says to his cousin, 'Hey, Coz, we really caught the fish there, eh? Did you mark that fishing spot, like I told you?' And his cousin told him: 'Oh, yeah. See here, I put a mark on the side of the boat right where we was catching them!' And Lars told him: 'You knob-head! How do you know we're going to get the same boat next time we go out?!' Ah, the 'Lars and his Cousin' jokes! A Minnesota tradition...

Tonight I've been watching a fascinating PBS program on the genetic evolution of dogs. It's made me realize that if I could properly choose, correct and reward desirable characteristics in posters, I could create a Peng Challenge Thread that is everything that a person could ever want to read. Sadly, the down-side would be posters who were hideously inbred, half-witted, near psychotic and riddled with faults. But they would exactly fit the profile, and always observe the Rules. Which would, ultimately, result in a Peng Challenge Thread that was like watching a fecking 'Best in Show' segment of Toy Poodles on parade. Joe, I'm begging you. Toss 'The Book' into the toilet. Join with me in creating a breed of Posters who are inappropriate in a way that makes them fit to post in nearly every environment. A full Profile, sure. Let no one post who's too much a fecking coward to stand up on his hind legs and howl. Rules? The simple Rule should be: Survive! Like a wolf pack, we have the simple rule of 'Coventry' to answer fools. Nae more Serfs, nae more Squires, nae more Feudalism! A certain amount of Anarchy is the basis of Change. Formalize a thing too far, and it becomes static, leaden, dead. This Thread was never meant to be the Spiritual Homeland of Intelligent Design. We are wolves. WE ARE WOLVES! We have been penned within a narrow place. Three Hundred posts and then we begin again. Let us welcome back into this little reserve a sense of wildness. Like the Goodalers, but without being so stupid and tedious. It is time to go on Walkabout. You always chide me for recruiting. But under the stars, on the brink of the Wasteland, do we simply abide? Or do we Create the World?! The Olde Ones have grown old indeed.

So, it's 11 degrees Fahrenheit here. That's -11.7 degrees Celsius to you fecking Marsupials that live on the arse end of the planet. With the wind chill, it's -4 degrees, or -20 to the Southern Hemisphere Lotus Eaters who've probably never endured a temperature colder than would make them pull on a jacket. Once again, my climate is trying to kill me. And I respect that. If Australia had the 6 months of our winter, it would have separated the wheat from the chaff ages ago. Leaving an empty land haunted by the bark of the few remaining dingoes and a gentle stirring of sand as the various poisonous species came out of hiding to reclaim the pseudo-continent. I came here the other night crying out for a good pork butcher, and was subjected to a drug addict's version of 'Charlotte's Web'. Except for Lars. No matter how stupid things get, you can always trust Lars to have his eye focused on Nature, and a slow cooker. He may be brute incarnate, but he's not going to lose one drop of gravy. And I can respect him for that.

Do you load of fetid dingo's kidneys know what I've been doing for the last hour? I've been trying to find Minnesota producers of heritage/heirloom/grass fed pork, lamb and beef. Do you know what the problem has been? Goddamn websites that want to explain to me all about health and wellness and treating animals well. I've been alive and eating too much ****e for too many years to give a rat's arse about health, and anyone who wants to teach macrame to pigs in an effort to raise the quality of their lives is welcome to a free copy of 'Babe, Pig in the City', courtesy of yours truly. But I acknowledge a hatred of 'Factory Farming'. It's degrading to both the animal, and the poor sods that have to eat them. I WANT FLAVOUR, GODDAMNIT! I WANT TO EAT ESPECIALLY TASTY AND INTERESTING ANIMALS! IS THAT SO BLOODY MUCH TO ASK?! I think it's the Holidays that bring it on. That, or the cold weather. In any case, I want to cook. I'd ask for new recipes, but I figure most of you lot stay alive spooning ****e out of cans.

Ah, Jayne. One of the clearest thinkers of our time...

How apropos... HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BERLI ME LAD!

Oh, a resurrected thread. I think that I would prefer to play through a battle past, then play through a battle yet to come. The operative word is 'play'. When I play a WWII game, I acknowledge history and what has been done. When I'm offered a speculative game on current conflict, I see the potential for the crippling or death of my nephews, nieces and the children of my friends. A lot of the fun spills out when your entertainment is a freshly dug grave, rather than a memorial to the past.

I'd be happy to know that you two toasted frosted flakes could find Canada on a map without a gang of Research Librarians performing intellectual CPR on you while helping one palsied limb to point roughly 'north', and chanting to exorcise the 'stupidity demons'.

This is so cool. Does this mean that if I can get Peng and Berli lined up this Winter/Spring to visit Beloit, that you could actually taser and/or pepper spray both of them for me? Because if you can do that, then all my dreams have come true.

luckily not in your case </font>