Seanachai

You know, Lars, I wouldn't put even money on you on any given weekend night to get a car door open on less than three tries. But I will withdraw all the money, whatever the amount, that I have in the bank, and put it on you at any odds to roll a prison bus not less than 4 times. And not just in a game. Because I know you, Lars. And I know that you are a champion.

... ... The next time you're in Minnesota, I'm going to kick you until you stop moving.

Son of a bitch. I really appreciate that. Also, beer.

Do you know, every now and then, I feel not merely the need to write, but the need to confess. Witness the bit about Croda posted above. But what's the point? Is there actually anyone out there who really wants to hear from me? Does anyone want to know the Truth?! I think not. By the by, you all look very handsome in your little sailor suits. Smiling and shuffling. The perfect answer to those who wanted a daughter, but had to acknowledge that sometimes there are testicles.

Oh, and by the by, the other night I was at Dalem's, and the bastard made himself a Bombay Sapphire martini with vermouth, shaken, and spent the next hour explaining to me that he was 'really, really drunk'. Worse, he kept asking me 'Why he was drunk'. I kept explaining to him that, after four fecking hours of drinking rum at a steady but acceptable pace, suddenly knocking down 4 oz.s of gin and vermouth in a 20 minute period while discoursing on the ultimate weirdness of the drinking behaviour in the movie 'Killer Shrews' was enough to make even the most hardened drunkard stagger and become confused. But the truth is, he's just a fecking pansy. Young people today. Bring me a baseball bat...

If we told you that you'd written a beautiful set of rules, would you hold them against yourself long enough to wipe?

I remember this one time, Croda and I were running down this dirt road to nowhere at 2 AM, with the oil light flickering on and off and the steering so fecking shot that the slightest twitch to the wheel would send the goddamn pickup skittering across the road like a drunken monkey. We were running 45 minutes late to a drug buy in a landscape that looked like the far side of the moon with scrub pine and Anti-Abortion wooden billboards that read 'It Stops a Human Heart'. Croda kept softly singing show tunes to himself, and down-shifting at really inappropriate times. I was so stoned that I was pouring honey directly down my throat from one of those 'honey bear' squeeze bottles, when Croda hit the carcass of a dead deer. I was blinded in one eye by the spray of honey, and began to choke as the viscous stream of ****e hit my lungs. Have you ever taken honey directly into your lungs? I imagine it's a lot like taking a solid shot of mustard gas. I was coughing these horrible, rending coughs; sick and wet and painful, and Croda put both our lives at risk by taking one hand off the steering wheel and lamely patting me on the back, like a fecking raccoon attempting to reassure its young. I remember the truck skittering off the road and plunging through a goddamn 'Native Plants of North America' field guide worth of vegetation, jigging just enough left and right to avoid anything that would have wrapped it up like a horseshoe, with me coughing and Croda patting me and going 'there, there'. We took a freaking stream-bed at 45 mph, water spraying up in huge rooster tails to either side, and broke the tie bar when we hit the shelving shore on the far side. Croda was wrenching the steering wheel back and forth, with only the left wheel responding, and the truck slewing wildly around and attempting to mount itself from the rear. When we finally came to a stop, it was on top of two fecking Puerto Rican coke dealers armed with AKs who had been crouched behind a screen of dwarf lilacs, with the truck's headlights shining on our trembling Hmong contact, 'Steve', who was looking at us with horror. He started shouting 'No kill, no kill' in a steadily rising voice rife with complete hysteria. And I looked at Croda through my one good eye, and drew as deep a breath as I could through the thick, viscous fluid coating my lungs, and said: 'Have you ever woke up with bullfrogs on your mind?' I'd tell you the rest of the story, as Paul Harvey Keitel would say, but the truth is, the Statute of Limitations never runs out on some crimes. Oh, joy. So, if I read it all, I can lop off at least 10,000 years in Purgatory? I'll be your huckleberry. Send it along. Are you still wading through the court system about the rental of that pickup truck?

Sorry, Macey. I can't post my pictures there. The moderators have banned me from the site.

I just received a digital camera as a gift from a friend. Expect a flood of Small Emma photos. Boo, do you have the ability to host pictures on the web? You must. You're the most technologically advanced primitive I've ever met.

What? Couldn't drive them from the clan's land fast enough to make money off sheep and grouse hunting, you landlord bastard?!

What is a J Ruddy? Is this creature in Coventry, or simply looming?

Lars? I don't want to see any more family photo album shots from you, okay? It's not that I don't care about your issues. It's simply that I think that sometimes they need to be worked out in another venue. Perhaps some form of 'pay per view'.

Why would you flee? There's a number of us who are looking to make 'kicking rleete in the ding-ding' an Olympic test sport. It's already gone to the Committee, but the question is whether it's more appropriate for the Summer or the Winter Olympics. There are arguments on both sides.

Just concentrating on reading your request has taken up all of my ability to concentrate. I'm spent. </font>

What are you talking about? WHERE ARE MY PANTS? </font>

What are you talking about? WHERE ARE MY PANTS?

Where the hell is Berli at?

Always on guard, Bauhaus. Always on guard. So, you're 'irritable'. are you? A bit fussy? YOU HORRIBLE LITTLE MAN! You buggered off, you bastard, and YOU LEFT US ALL TO WONDER. You left us cold. You left us alone. And now you're back. You'll do the right thing. YOU WILL SPELL RIGHT, YOU WILL USE CORRECT ENGLISH, YOU WILL FALL DOWN AND BARK LIKE THE SMARTEST DOG THAT EVER LIVED, YOU FECK!

And that all fits well. Because the word from today's returning Olde One is: Piss off! I'm not up to speed, as I've been...gone. But its only taken me this page to make me go all fuzzy and tingly and for all sorts of little alarms to go off and make me want to jump about going 'now, now, children', and other such complete ****e that wouldn't otherwise occur to anything other than a grown-up, eh? Kitty and Dorosh, is it? Oh, look. We've got a chance to host a pissing match. Tempting. But no. Welcome back, Kitty. Where've you been? Dorosh, the explanations of why I actually am dead, were all too prescient. My gods, if God made anything for himself better than Glenrothe's single malt, he drank it while watching the universe bathe in its own urine.

There is simply no question in my mind that Bauhaus is an idiot. An erudite and intriguing idiot, so far as idjits go, but still an idiot. I therefore raise no objections to him raising himself to Pope of the Thread. For every soul, and every goal, there is a moment when it 'All Comes Together'. For the rest of us, there's that moment when you remember being drunk with Bauhaus. I think I tried to get him to sing. He wouldn't make a go of it. Any man that won't sing might as well be a Pope.

A poodle could lift a salubrious leg on pretty much everything you have, or will ever have to say, and regret that it had but one puddle to make.

HA! Now we see the utter spiritual, and quite possibly sexual bankruptcy of the 'American Right'. Not to mention their sordid, never-quite-swept-under-the-carpet Nazi worship. A REAL American, Roger, wouldn't simply be moved to tears and choking attempts at singing a patriotic song when he saw The Flag waving in the slanting rays of dawn. He'd ALSO feel nothing but zeal and patriotic excitement when he saw the patterns of American Uniforms. But not for Modern American Conservatives, eh? Roger? Have you ever wondered why they had SKULLS on the brims of their caps? Or did you just go 'Oh, hey, screw Democracy, that whole Death's Head thing is WAY COOL!'? Full disclosure: Roger is a great guy. I would never, ever drive to his house and kill him with an axe. I would, on the other hand, drive to his house and drink any and all beer he had there, whether it was offered to me or not. I would compliment and be appreciative of his wife. Who must be a Saint. I would do that weird adult thing where adults get really goofy trying to amuse and connect with someone else's small children. I would succeed. His small son would regard me as the greatest thing in the world, if only because I was so amusing. Roger would probably not punch me in the face for being completely correct about Current American Politics. But only because I made his kid laugh. Late at night, and only while dead drunk, Roger would admit to me that he sometimes tossed and turned while trying to fall asleep because he was concerned that he found German WWII uniforms 'sexually stimulating'. He'd confess that it made him dream that he and Grog Dorosh had gone on a Road Trip from the birthplace of William Tecumseh Sherman across the South, but that somehow they ended up in a cafe in Aix en Provence. And that he sat there, in the Mediterranean sunlight, sipping wine and eating oysters, and wondering if his conservatism was simply a form of anger he couldn't let go of without risking having to redefine happiness, or if he luxuriated in the cold, cruel forms of the precision that made the boxcars to the Death Camps run on time. And he told me that he never liked me. But I'm not taken aback by all that. I know he likes me. As Freud said: Sometimes 'Compassionate Conservatism' is simply a desire to connect with the people you're about to victimize. [ November 01, 2006, 10:59 PM: Message edited by: Seanachai ]

Ah, well. Drain the beaker of piss to its dregs, then, and try not to choke on the paper umbrella, oh Boo. The Justicar approves your 'Rules'. And he is a Just Man, otherwise We would not have given him the Powers he now wields. I have come to despise 'The Rules'. We created the dog fornicating rules as an answer to the mob of racists, misogynists, trolls, Gaylord, masturbators, neo-nazis, 'pet snuff-film pornographers' and assorted mentally feeble lackwits that used to show up here to abuse the fact that they thought: "There Are No Rules In the Peng Challenge Thread" Christ on a crutch, we need 'Rules' the way Haliburton needs another sealed non-competitive bid. We're goddamn near the Forum equivalent of Opus Dei. I demand a COMPLEAT reconsideration of Our Status in 'The World'. I demand a reconsideration of 'Our Mission'. Why are we here? What do we mean?! Whither the Peng Challenge, eh?

Hot air ballooning? </font>