[The Peng Challenge Thread – Never Safe to Say]

Do you ever look in the mirror and think "my brain has gone. I hope it went to a good home".

Do you know how hard it is to ignore the "Mens magazines" in this here hairdressing shop just to reply to you? Useless sod, go paddle up the creek, without the paddle.

Noba.

Fecking Christ on a crutch. At least Noba's here. I feel better.

Not a lot better, mind you. But before, I was just going to go throw up, and go to bed. Now, I have a whole new lease on life.

It's the same lease on life, of course that has me wondering about all you lot of fools. How are you doing?

Don't be afraid. Tell Seanachai, the Old one, how you're doing.

[The Peng Challenge Thread – Never Safe to Say]

3 am, and no one there?

Fecking weaklings. Where are the Australians, I ask you?

C*cks*ck*rs.

OH MY GODS, WHAT'S BECOME OF ALL THE VOWELS?!!

[The Peng Challenge Thread – Never Safe to Say]

Emrys, you are an Old Man. Had the gods looked just a bit askance, had the next post been something different, had Berli mocked Peng slightly differently, all those many, many posts ago, you might be here, where I am here.

You could now be what I have become, here in the Forum.

Have I done well? Have I been what I could be, or should be?

Have I done well, Old One?

(F*ck off, the rest of you. I AM the Old One of the Peng Challenge Thread, and I know what I mean. You lot go and scamper at the door, and wonder about what those who've grown old enough to be both certain, and afraid, have to say to each other).

You know, Michael, why I have always granted you a status beyond all but what the other Old Ones have. And the other Old Ones are younger than I, though they loom larger in the imagination.

They are Berli, the Dark Knight, the Evil One, the Angry Man. The man who can't be having with all that. They are Peng, the Curmudgeon, the Judgmental One, the man who wants the world to be better. The man who's a bit vague about how it should happen, but knows evil when he sees it.

And then, there's me. The man caught between dark and light. The Seanachai. The Storyteller.

And I'll go into the grave before the other two feckers will, unless there's a god that takes into account Berli's non-stop smoking, and Peng's frailness of purpose, and I'm given some kind of special dispensation.

So tell me, Emrys, Oldest, when I come to the Last World, and find your worthless arse there, dead, will I have done well?

Well?

I am the Seanachai.

[The Peng Challenge Thread – Never Safe to Say]

But there was this one story, that happened to my friend Bob (big orange sheep!), that I remember he told me once, and I might have told it here, but maybe not, and so, I tell it again, as if for the first time...

My friend Bob (big orange sheep!), once owned a sandwich/deli/beer bar place in Columbia, Missouri. He bought it from its former owner, who he worked for for awhile, who skimmed all the profits from the place to do dumb-rocks and cocaine. And one day, when Bob was running the place, a police officer came in, with a leaflet in his hand, and asked to speak to the owner.

And Bob came out to talk to him, and the cop said 'Sir, are you the owner of this establishment?', and Bob told him, 'Well, yes?'

And the cop proffered the leaflet he was carrying and said 'Well, I found this stapled to a telephone pole in town'. And Bob looked at it, and recognized the flyer of one of the singer/songwriters that he'd encouraged to play in his business on Weekend Nights. Young guys, in general, who played guitar, and sang songs, and Bob played guitar, himself, and he liked them to be there, and maybe it brought in more business, but they played for tips and cost no one anything but time.

'Yes?, he told the cop. 'He's going to play guitar here Saturday.'

'Well," the cop told him. 'It's illegal to post a flyer on a telephone pole in town.'

'Okay?' Bob told him. 'I'll tell the guy who posted it?'

'I'm going to have to give you a ticket.'

Bob thought about it.

'But I didn't post it. He doesn't work for me. He plays for tips, we don't pay him.'

'Sorry, but your Place of Business is the one named here, and you're the owner. I'm going to have to give you a ticket.'

And the cop starts writing out the ticket. So my buddy Bob says to him, 'Okay, I realize that a telephone pole is something too beautiful to deface, but in the future where should I tell the people who play here where to post their leaflets?'

And the cop tells him:

"They should staple them to the cossacks downtown."

And Bob thinks about it for a moment, and then he tells him "You can get a nasty saber cut that way!"

The cop says 'What?'

Bob says to him 'Where are they supposed to staple them?'

'On the cossacks.'

'What, nomad horsemen sitting on sturdy ponies?'

'What? Look they should post their leaflets on those round things downtown.'

'You mean the kiosks?'

'Yeah, whatever.'

And then he gave Bob a $100 ticket.

The best part of the story it that there was a married couple having lunch in Bob's place that day, who caught the whole thing. And they started giving the cop a hard time, asking him if he was seriously going to give Bob a ticket rather than a warning for such a stupid offense, and the cop said he was just doing his job, and it turned out that the couple were reporters for the local paper, and they did a whole column on the incident.

And it turns out that the cop was generally disliked even by all the other cops, and for months afterwards they had a lot to ask him about the Czar and keeping order amongst the Tartars.

[The Peng Challenge Thread – Never Safe to Say]

I think I am worthy to get to read more of your younger days stories. I'm worthy to read all of your stories. So I want more stories!

You are, dear Lady, worthy. But the stories of my younger days...that is a book of shame. It can only be read out loud around an open fire, outdoors, with the drink flowing and the smoke of cigars mingling with the smell of burning wood (preferably pine, for the association with my childhood), and it's after the time when all right thinking folk should be in bed. Say, around 2 am.

And what's there, when you come right down to it? Tales of drunkenness? There's not an Australian on this Board who couldn't probably tell a tale more hair-rising, disturbing and repugnant than anything I could come up with. Tales of drug abuse? Go on and read Hunter S. Thompson, if that's the way you roll. Tales of sexual excess? One blushes. You'll get none of that sort of thing from me, because I was almost always too busy with the tales of drunkenness and drug abuse to pay much attention to that sort of thing. Tales of wild adventures, misadventures, and general weirdness? I was always too much the Good Child, too much the favoured son, too much the shy, bespectacled shat upon 'student' to ever be involved with any of that.

All I've ever had, is the picture of wild adventures, tales of drunkenness, and disturbing drug abuse. I can paint it with both a broad brush, and a fine one. And the longer I live, and the more folk I talk to, the more I realize that everything I've ever done has been simply dancing on the edge of a vast chasm of weirdness.

On the other hand, I've actually had to pay for my stupidity and weirdness, here and there. And I've collected a great treasure trove of stories, and known the moments of weirdness. And I've done much of it without having to buy more than the first round.

I am, after all, the Seanachai. And that means, in the Old Language: the Storyteller.

But what it really means, is, 'the Story Gatherer'. And my friends make fun of me, here in town, here in my own place, when we get together, when everyone is talking, and I begin things that I say with 'I remember this one time...', and 'I knew this fellow who...', and 'There was this time when we...'

And you get mocked for it, rather than appreciated. You get chided and chivvied for beginning a tale; perhaps it happened to you, perhaps someone you know, perhaps someone you knew, and you begin a tale, and everyone chortles and mocks. And no one believes you, or wants to hear, or they know a better story about someone else, or has a better story about something they did, and no one ever realizes that all the stories come to rest somewhere.

And where do they come to rest? You could spend a long day looking for them, and drink a lot of booze trying to remember, or forget them, but they come to where they belong.

But they all get told around an open fire, maybe with a bit of drink at hand, and it may be late at night, and if you can lift your eyes up to what's beyond the fire, and beyond the point where the fire shows you where you are sitting, you'll see nothing. A Wasteland. And in the Wasteland there are always those who sit, and listen.

And they are called 'Seanachais'.

[The Peng Challenge Thread – Never Safe to Say]

You no doubt meant "its".

I was sorrowing. My spelling goes to pieces when I'm unhappy, you pirck.

[The Peng Challenge Thread – Never Safe to Say]

Boo, I am very sorry to hear of your loss. The 'Pool mourns a man who has been it's benefactor. Without him, we wouldn't have Boo.

Take care of yourself, and your family, and love to Rose.

[The Peng Challenge Thread – Never Safe to Say]

Ah, my two Small Friends. They are, of course, Small Emma and Smaller Nora. But I have to say, they could just as easily be called 'the Sly One', and 'the Crazy One'.

Emma is quite smart, the negotiator, the one who whispers in your ear 'Here is a thing, and we want this, and we think this, and we want to do this, and we want you to get this for us, and you should not tell Mom!'

And I am their patient chronicler, biographer, and all-round Renfield. I am the owned adult. The world of small children is fascinating, especially if you're both an observer, and a participant. Parents are not participants. Parents are like the gods. Other adults are not participants. They're like remarked upon figures in the Story of childhood, or occasional party games. Only a few, a very few adults, are allowed to participate.

And, if you're allowed, then you're owned. You are Owned. You get told the secrets (at least for now), and you have to play the games, and you have to be treated like a complete halfwit, and you have to be their friend, first and foremost, and you have to do what they want, and you have to help them (to the best of your half-witted ability) to get their way.

And you're the best Adult ever, because, technically, you're a Grown-up, and can help them do the things that they shouldn't, technically, do, and speak up for them, and talk to Mom and Dad, and when they need to have 'an Adult along', you technically qualify.

But, ultimately, you belong to them.

They are imperious beyond the dreams of most Emperors. Their secrets are small, and silly, but they are their secrets, and they cannot be divulged. Their games are tiring to old bones, and the rules are strange, but they are the games you have to play. You have to do all this, or you're not their adult.

In return, you are allowed to know many small, silly secrets, play many odd, incomprehensible and physically tiring games, and be ordered about like a slave on the family plantation. You get bossed around. You get treated like an idiot. You get dismissed when you're not needed, or when they get bored with you.

But, in return, you get to see them - being children. Not little lives you're responsible for, making them grow up to be good people, who have to be taught, fed, clothed and cared for. Not small creatures trying to get your attention at dinner parties, or running around making too much noise, or incomprehensible beings doing something in the background.

You get to see them being themselves. They own you, so they owe you. They owe you their small, silly secrets. They owe you a role in their strange games, and have to tell you the bizarre rules. They owe you the entertainment you get from being their hulking, 'owned' adult.

They owe you a small portion of affection, maybe even love.

Small, silly secrets. Incomprehensible games. Orders, demands, and rolled eyes that, all too clearly, indicate you're stupid beyond belief. Most people have to go to work for that sort of thing.

But when I come in the door, I'm always met with hugs and smiles. I get to read bedtime stories. I get read bedtime stories, nowadays. And they always insist I get dessert, just like them. And if they get a treat, and I don't have anything, I always get given a little bit. With a smile.

And after a fairly long life, I'm here to tell you, it's pretty good wages.

[The Peng Challenge Thread – Never Safe to Say]

You know what's better than a 90 minute conference call on a Friday night?

Coming home afterwards and pouring a stiff glass of pizza, rum&coke, and later, a Kristoff shaggy-foot Churchill.

Plus I picked up a new bottle of whisky today. Seanachai suggested I get something Irish for the cabinet so I got a bottle of Red Breast 12 yr. So far I have to say my favorite is the Talisker 18 yr though.

Ah, our own version of Omar Khayyam. But, because Dalem is a creature of the 21st Century, there is no "and Thou".

Bloody good thing, too. Did our own Dalem mention that on Thursday he had lunch with Sci-Fi writer Steven Brust? Probably not. I'm imagining that even if he had, he wouldn't mention that he'd had lunch with him a couple hundred feet from my apartment.

Oh, I knew about the lunch. I wasn't invited, of course. And that's just as well. Because, if I had been invited, I would have shown up only long enough to steal one of Brust's shoes, and run off laughing into south Minneapolis. And I'd have gone to every fan site on the web for Brust's various books, and chortled, and said 'Ha! I've got one of his fecking shoes!'

Well, long enough to have a couple of glasses of wine, and then steal one of Brust's shoes.

It wouldn't have really been theft, of course. After all, I had 3 terms of German from his father at Carleton College in the early 70s. That makes us almost family, in some ways.

I remember Herr Brust (the Elder). Big time Communist. One class, we began by discussing early German literature, but it ended with him ranting about the ultimate collapse of the Western Economic system, and he did a lovely bit describing empty lunch bags blowing through the parking lots of failed factories. Steve Johnson, a classmate, did a lovely bit of making a sad, soughing wind noise to accompany it. Herr Brust was slightly deaf, so it went unremarked.

Just as well. The only reason I passed out of my language requirement at Carleton was because I made a point of sitting by Johnson, and whenever I was called on to give an answer about dative/accusitive/etc. I looked blank until Steve Johnson whispered the answer to me.

Good times, good times.

Little was I to know that one day I'd be reading his son's books. In a couple of the early ones, he made references to places in Northfield, where Carleton was, such as the Hill of 3 Oaks. What I could tell you about that hill.

But I shant, because you're all unworthy swine, and the mysteries and wonders of my younger days aren't for sharing with a shower like you lot.

Safe to say, though, that I began my career as an Old One, sitting around a fire in the Wasteland and wondering about complete bloody idjits, had it's genesis somewhere, now didn't it?

[The Peng Challenge Thread – Never Safe to Say]

You never know...

[The Peng Challenge Thread – Never Safe to Say]

Occasional work, end of the kayak season, Ren Fest, baby-sitting Small Friends, gaming, drinking and shouting obscenities at Dalem's, existential angst and the fear of imminent non-existence. The usual.

Any new members, or any lackwits I shouldn't bother to address remarks to?

[The Peng Challenge Thread – Never Safe to Say]

Excuse me, excuse me, coming through - excuse me, I'm a very pushy person, and I need to get to the front, here, excuse me.

Ahem. What's been going on, then, eh?

[The Peng Challenge Thread's Got Talent!]

I assume noisily and with your hands around someone's neck.

That's because I shot you with a low velocity round, Dalem, you feck...

[The Peng Challenge Thread's Got Talent!]

Die Luft ist kühl und es dunkelt,

Und ruhig fließt der Rhein

from the poem 'Die Lorelei', by Heinrich Heine.

The air is cool, in the gloaming

and peaceful flows the Rhine.

What we should remember him for, these days, especially since he's a German, he stated: Where they begin by burning books, they will finish by burning men.

He was referring in his play 'Almansor', set in Spain during the Inquisition, to the burning of the Quran.

Maybe you lot should study more about Germany than their tanks, eh?

[The Peng Challenge Thread's Got Talent!]

There is a thing you have to do, when you are 'Grandma Steve'. You have to play games. I have been excused from playing the games of Small Friends for some time, because...

Well, because Small Friends are so much better at playing together, these days. I sit lately with their Mom, downstairs, talking, these days. We get caught up on life, and how things are, and politics, and such. And we explore once again our friendship, her and 'Daddy', my friend Chris, and we are, for those moments when they get home, adults again, remembering that we were friends long before they had children.

My Small Friends have still been there, of course. Demanding 'Grandma Steve, come and play with us!'. And their Mom tells them 'No! Grandma Steve wants to talk to Mommy and Daddy for a while! You two go up and play with Polly Pockets (a weird, cheap, aimless doll toy), and Grandma Steve will play with you later!'

But, for many months, Grandma Steve has not, necessarily played with them much. Of course, I still play with them. But between the need for everyone to have dinner (and believe me, for someone who's 'this close' to living on the street, a meal with friends is a livesaver), and watching some TV, and practicing piano, and such, there's been less time for play, and more time to be...a grown-up.

But for a while now, I come over, and we goof around a bit, and maybe watch some iCarly on TV, and I love them, and they are glad that I am there, and I get caught up with their Mom, who knows that I'm too old, and fat, and broken down to chase after small girls, and then I go home.

But they remain my Small Friends. And I remain their Grandma Steve. It's like... a contract.

There are too many nights, lately, when I lie there in the dark, and begin to wonder how I'm going to go. Heart attack, stroke, embolism, aneurism, sudden massive failure of all internal organs. Every day filled with fresh aches and pains, sudden numbness, occasional disorientation, unexpected shortness of breath, dizziness...

It's only a matter of time. And sometimes every moment of mortality hits me, late at night, lying there, all alone in an apartment that hasn't been cleaned in years. But when I can't catch my breath for fear, I remember that I have Small Friends. And... I know a different kind of fear. How can I let my Small Friends down?

And I take strength in that. I'm staying alive because there is NO GODDAMN WAY that I'm going to die and upset them. Also, I figure it irritates the rest of you, so it's all good.

But, tonight, we played games again. Their games. The games that when you try and describe them to an adult, they look at you like you're drunk or high, but they are THE games, for little girls.

They are silly, and precise, and rigid, and repetitive, and hard to explain. And you can change them, but only at certain points, and only so much, and after you change them, you're not in charge, because they become The Game, again, and go back into the hands of the children.

If you've never played one of these games, you will probably not understand. And you can order armies and nations, and make mankind bend to your will, but if you have never played one of these games, you will die and go to hell, and no one will remember you, and good riddance.

So, tonight, we were supposed to play four games. As God is my witness, I can't remember what they were all supposed to be. Each game was decided by Small Emma, the great decider, and they each involved a different 'American Girl' doll. Her Mom and I agreed that one of the greatest movie remakes in Cinema history would be remaking 'Saving Private Ryan' with children landing on the Normandy beaches with American Girl dolls. Think about it. German soldiers, poised with MG42s in their hands, sited in on the beaches, and suddenly, the landing crafts disgorge an army of little girls with dolls in strollers, on plastic ponies, dolls in carriers...

Would YOU pull the trigger?

So, I was there tonight because I picked up Small Emma at school, because her Mom had a terrible cold, and had to be there to let in the stooge from Centerpoint Energy to make sure the furnace was in good shape for the New Heating Season.

I like to be there, in these situations, because I love to see my Small Friends, and because they're amongst my oldest friends, and to pay back the fact that they've been feeding me for months, off and on, and because I am Grandma Steve.

My Small Friend Emma is now a Second Grader. This means she walks down the hall from her classroom with all her stuff to the lobby of the school for 'Parent Pick-up', and she sees me, standing there, waiting for her, and she smiles, and says 'Hello, Grandma Steve! Goodbye, Shannon' she says to the small girl she is walking with. She is such a big girl, now. It's another day to her. A fun day. I blink away tears. It is a fun day for me, too. The tip of my index finger on my left hand has been partially numb for months. I went to the doctor about it. They started me on a round of medical tests that cost me around a $1,000 before I decided I'd rather deal with the numbness and loss of dexterity rather than the loss of whatever little money I had, especially since they weren't able to tell me anything.

Anyways, there was going to be four games. But I was downstairs, drinking Christmas Water with their Mom (think 'rum and coke'; their Mom had a horrible cold, and was drinking cranberry juice with sparkling water), and getting caught up. And I told them 'we would play the games, all the games, when the boiler guy came'. And he arrived, and we went upstairs to play.

We only got to play the first game, because Small Friends, like adults, have big plans, but will settle for playing one silly game a lot. So, I was there. And it was the same sort of game I remembered so well, from when Small Emma was much smaller. There were more details, but it was the same sort of goofy game.

So, in the game, Small Emma was the big sister, and Nora was the smaller sister, and the doll Felicity was the next smaller sister, and some weird arsed Barbie type doll was the smallest sister. When Emma explained it, the Barbie doll was the daughter of the America Girl doll, but since they were both supposed to be sisters of Emma and Nora, I stepped in and said that wasn't going to work from a simple point of genetics and not being in Appalachia. I suggested that the dolls were twins. She pointed out that they didn't look alike. I said that they were fraternal twins, rather than identical twins. This was considered, and because she only barely understood my explanation, she went with it.

So everyone had to go to bed, and I was 'the Dad', and she was 'Ruby', the oldest sister, and Nora was 'Abby', the younger sister, and the two dolls had names that aren't worth worrying about. And we all went to sleep, but Me, the 'Dad', had this thing about singing when he was asleep, because he'd had too much 'Christmas Water' to drink. So, I lay on the bed and started singing the Eric Bogle song 'And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda'.

You can see how the games of children mirror reality, eh?

So, she'd take the blanket and throw it over my face, and I'd go "What, what, what! What's happening?"

And she would, all small child older sister second mother say: "Grandma Steve, you had too much Christmas Water to drink and were singing again. Now be quiet, the children have to sleep!"

And then she and her sister would giggle like loons.

And then, we'd do it all again. Over and over. It reminded me a lot of when I was a younger myself, except that there wasn't much singing, then, and not so much laughing.

And then, when it was morning, we all woke up. And Small Emma made us all breakfast.

We sat at the little table in her room, and she brought us 'breakfast'. I got a plain donut, and Nora got a chocolate donut, because she loves chocolate donuts, and Emma had a strawberry donut. This exactly matches the silly, plastic food that Emma has in her playset, in terms of plastic donuts.

And, before we could eat the donuts, Small Emma told us: "Okay, now we have to pray." Her parents are agnostic/atheist.

She knelt at the table, and put her hands together in the classic 'Small Girl Praying Hands' diorama. And her Smaller Sister did the same.

And I said, 'Whoa, whoa, whoa, Emmasine! Who are we praying to?'

And she told me: 'God'

So I told her: 'God? Is he here? Where is he?'

'He's in the sky. Now, Thank you God, for our food...'

'Emma, how do we know it's a God? What if it's a Goddess?'

'It's God. Maybe it's Zeus. Whatever. Now, thank you for our food...'

I will never forget that moment. Little girls, raised by atheists, but whose grandparents are devout Lutherans. But they've also been raised on Disney Films, so that they know that, in 'Hercules', Zeus is the father of the gods.

So, God. Zeus. The Goddess. Darwin. Whatever. Look, Grandma Steve, we're saying grace now, okay? We're thanking God for our food. Shut up and play the game. Maybe, just for a moment, old man, we're going to give thanks to something.

Shouldn't we give thanks for what we have? And isn't it the foolishness of old people to make a big deal about the name? How many millions have died because old men demanded that a certain name was used? Or that no name was used at all?

Maybe we should thank someone for what we have, everyday. God. Jehovah. Allah. Zeus. the Goddess. Darwin. Whatever. Aren't we happy for what we have? Do we have to believe in someone, to be thankful? Isn't it enough to be thankful, and to have?

Every night, before I go to bed, I thank my friends for being my friends. I thank my family, for putting up with me. And every night, now and forever, I thank God, Christ, Jehovah, Allah, the Goddess, Zeus, Darwin and any other god that may or may not have ever existed, or be listening, for my Small Friends, Emma and Nora.

'Cause my Small Friends are way cool. We play games. And we're thankful. Maybe someday, they'll know how important it is to be thankful.

[The Peng Challenge Thread's Got Talent!]

Smaller Nora is 'Hit Girl'.

Tra la, la, la, lalalala

Tra la, la, la, lalalala!

One banana, two banana, three banana, four.

Four bananas make a bunch and so do many more.

Over hill and highway the banana buggies go

Comin' on to bring you The Banana Splits Show.

Und ruhig fliess der Rhein...

[The Peng Challenge Thread's Got Talent!]

So, my staggering powers of prognostication and mighty thews of justice were committed in fierce battle against Elvis's faerie wings of indecision and his tiara of hope, and tho' the struggle was long and hard (siddown, Bauhaus!), in the end, the forces of right and good have prevailed in the wager. And I stand ready to collect my just reward.

Well, all that happened back in June, pretty much, and the poor but shiny Elvis stood with head bowed and forelock tugged, awaiting the word on which hoppy brew might he pour forth from his whithered bowls of loss and miscalculation.

"I know not!" I cried, and my brow was wrinkled and knotted with indecision. I have but little experience with the Earthly brew known as "beer", and I feared a hasty choice might go amiss, and I stand to gain little from the mockery of my high brethren and lesser attendees and hangers-on, and much to gain from the pain and sorrow of my brave but defeated opponent.

I bent my mind long on thought and in the end beamed many transmissions to my Alcohol Jedi Obi-wan Stoli, nowadays known simply as Old Gnome Stoli.

"I'm drunk!" he shouted. He shouts a lot.

"Seanachai Stoli, years ago you drank a lot during the Gin Wars. Now I beg you to help me in my struggle to pick a good beverage."

"I'm drunk!" he shouted again. There were muffled sounds of large objects being pushed across a rough floor.

"I have fought long and - "

"Holy sh!teburgers, I'm WAY drunk!"

"Sigh. I need a good beer. Pick one for me, I beg of you."

"I'm - Woops!" he shouted one more time. This time it was the sound of glass breaking that came through.

Obviously left to my own devices I rejoined the defeated and humiliated Elvis who still waited with the patience of one who has been humiliated and defeated.

And I made my own choice and with the last of his strong magic Elvis did cause a small river of amber brew to flow from Pennsylvania to Minnesota. And as he shuffled away, head bowed and shoulders shaking, I smiled in secret triumph, for he had made my victory the greater in his woe.

For at the last he sought to dupe me, his greater, and when I asked for Budweiser, he fell into the trap that I had prepared for him, and he countered with an offer of Miller Lite instead.

Which is what I had purposed to ask for in the first place. And sweet, sweet victory, she is mine.

And Old Gnome?

Killed. Drowned in a snowglobe accident.

Sigh That was beautiful, man.

I'm still going to kill you in your sleep, though.

Maybe I'll wait awhile. In case you've still got some words, and some other words, and something about words in you.

I don't feel good about killing anyone with some strains of poetry still in their soul. Of course, for many people who post here, the only reason they're still alive is that I don't have the opportunity to go over to their homes on a Saturday night and put a pillow over their face and hold it there until they stop thrashing about.

What a clean and pleasant world this would be if I had the money to travel to the homes of each and every one of you...

[The Peng Challenge Thread's Got Talent!]

When the hell did YOU grow up???

Well, I've mainly grown 'out'. But I've certainly gotten older, and, when I was younger, there was certainly a gain in height.

Also, I've become incredibly wise. I can competently deal with sticks, goats, questions about squirrels, and you incredible shower of fools.

The other night I was watching TV with my friend, Smaller Nora. A moth fluttered by, and she flinched away from it. I told her: 'That's just a moth, Nora Nu.'

She told me 'I do not like moths'. I said 'Oh, moths aren't bad. They're like butterflies, but not as cute'.

She sat silently for a minute or so, eyes on the TV, and then in a serious, small girl voice said 'Moths suck all the blood out of your body'.

...?

I looked at her in horror. "My gods, Nora, what a terrifying world you live in. Moths do not do that. We have to have a talk about where you're getting your Natural History from."

I mean, there are moths everywhere. How could the little bugger even go to sleep at night, thinking that? No wonder she can always find a stick...

[The Peng Challenge Thread's Got Talent!]

Love,

Alice....

And we still retain the rose, from that night at the dance...

[The Peng Challenge Thread's Got Talent!]

Can't be discarded, must be played.

Don't tell Seanachai.

You know, I've never had to actually shout at you for 15 minutes to get you to accept reality.

Good gods, man. Do you realize you were arguing on the basis that 'cards are something you can hold in your hand?'

You were 2 minutes away from telling us all that 'shoes could be discarded at the end of a turn, because they were hard to hold in your hand, and, in any case, were meant to go on your feet.'

[The Peng Challenge Thread's Got Talent!]

I, dalem, of House Persiflage, Lord High Hullabalooster, Lord of Pants, and Olde One Extraordinnaire, hereby claim one Yeknodathon, Supreme HonkyDonkey, as my Versificationwan Learner.

I do prophesize that he is the Honky One who can bring balance to the Versification.

So it is written, so it is done.

Apparently the rum is all gone, and we're now mixing coca-cola with the cleaning fluids under the sink, eh, Dalem?

[The Peng Challenge Thread's Got Talent!]

Oh, and Michael, after sitting and perusing your ever growing signature of achievement, I just want to go on record as saying:

"Emrys is wrong. Wrong like an Appalachian 'After School Special' which involves learning how to kiss from your sister. Wrong like putting the mayonnaise out in the sun for 4 hours so it can soak up vitamin D, to make it more nutritional and healthful. Wrong like drinking shampoo in order to get your hair clean. Wrong like voting for a candidate that promises you an 'economic system' based on the idea that when the rich have had their fill, you'll be allowed to eat the scraps off the floor while they piss on your head (hence, 'trickle down'). Wrong like everything to do with the concept of a 'Reality TV Celebrity'. Wrong like a romantic comedy based on the life of Idi Amin. Wrong.

I just want that to be on record. It doesn't matter what it's in reference to. I think it's just important to say it, occasionally.

[The Peng Challenge Thread's Got Talent!]

I have had warning of imminent 'versification', which could occur at any moment.

COVER YOUR EYES, BOO, COVER YOUR EYES!

[The Peng Challenge Thread's Got Talent!]

Thoughts that constitute something like a Story of Small Friends:

America. That's on my mind. Where are we going?

I have decided: I am going to the Zoo, and America can either come along, or stick it's finger up it's arse and then suck on it like a popsicle stick. I will bring my Small Friends, Emma and Nora. We like the sea otters. Bears are cool. They need to give the Snow Monkeys more to be entertained by. In the summer Tigers are like throw rugs. The whole Minnesota Trail is WAY COOL, now, since they re-did it. The Butterfly House is like fairyland. The Komodo Dragons aren't as scary as you'd think, unless they suddenly move fast. Wolves don't hurt people. Wild Boars are scary looking, but probably taste great. The dolphin looks so lonely now that almost all the other dolphins have died. This is Minnesota. Why do we keep doing dolphins? The Shark is so spooky. That Shark is so spooky, too! I really like all the fish, especially the funny looking ones. Nora likes the fish the most. Why aren't there any Meerkats, anymore? But they didn't ALL bite the stupid girl who climbed up to stick her hand in the cage, why are they ALL gone?

What's that? That's a Takin, from China. They call it that because it's 'takin' it's time' (Even 7 year olds think this is a hugely stupid joke). The reason the Prairie Dogs stand up like that and make that weird barking noise is because of predators. Yes, they're in the Zoo, but they're not safe. Do you know what a Red-Tailed Hawk is? There's no net over their enclosure. Usually the Wild Horses do that in the Spring. They're not fighting, it's like...playing. No, we're not going to the Musk Ox area. Because in summer the Musk Ox are a quarter mile away and look like couches with dreadlocks. Oh, gods, no, do we have to walk to the 'Wells Fargo Family Farm' exhibit? It's even farther than the Musk Ox. Did you girls know that Wells Fargo has probably foreclosed on more family farms in the last year or two than you've had breakfasts? Yeah, I know the baby cows and pigs are cute. And the sheep. But chickens are largely scary. Geese are mean. And the whole thing with the rabbits is weird. Don't put your hands there, the horses bite. Okay, only feed the small goats, with the nibbly lips. They are very nice. Okay, when the large, aggressive goats come, throw the pellets into the air and run. It was okay that Nora screamed like that, it upset the annoying goats. No, we can't let her have her stick. Goats are probably expensive.

No, there are no giraffes this year. That was a visiting exhibit. Yes, I remember the year you fed the giraffe. You were very brave, and fed it very well. Okay, we can play here for a while, keep an eye on your sister. Grandma Steve is going to have a lemon ice. Sigh. Yes, I will come and play with you both. Yup, this is a really good playground. Yes, it is pretty hot. Drink your water. Make sure Nora drinks her water too. No, the Bird Show is over. Yes, I've seen it, but it's been a while. It's pretty good. Tell your Mom you want to see it next time. Those? Those are swans. They're pretty. Our native swans are Trumpeter Swans, I've seen them at Lake Rebecca. I've even seen them at lakes near there, when I was paddling. They're coming back. We almost killed them off, but they're doing good. Sometimes it's hard to live around people. It makes me happy that they're coming back. They're very pretty. I think we've seen most things. No, I don't think Mommy will buy you that...or that...or that either. She might let you get that. Do you want that? Not so much, eh? What would I get you? Little girl, I would get you the moon and the stars. But the only thing I can give you is America. Because that is free, and belongs to you, and all I can do is throw wide my arms, and tell you it is yours. And I hope, during your life you will redeem it, and it will become great, and glorious, and wonderful again. The way it was when I grew up.

[The Peng Challenge Thread's Got Talent!]

All this talk of painting and brushes with respect to Seanachai makes me grin. The only painting he's really capable of involves him dropping his pants and scooting across a white carpet.

You're spending too much time in the bathroom, both mentally and physically.

So, you're moved to take on 'Viajero' as your own little lost lamb then, eh? Willing to spend the necessary time cleaning his teeth, clipping the hair around his bum, making sure no Aussie creeps up behind him to play 'hide the pickle'?

Is there anyone who challenges Dalem for the right to take on the annoying halfwit known as 'Viajero' as squire?