Seanachai

I do read it, and I do love you like my own brother. If I had one, which I don't. I shall respond to you, in glorious technicolour, as soon as I become coherent. Which I never bother to be, here. Pearls before swine, and all that.

MrPeng sits in his Challenge Home, drinking of the blood-red wine "Where can I get a bloody fool to sail this mighty Thread of mine?" Then up there spoke a half-wit lad, sitting at the Peng's right knee "Old Seanachai is the greatest fool that ever posted unto thee" The Peng has written a broad letter and sealed it up with his own right hand Sending word to Seanachai to come to him at his command Then said the Seanachai with dread, thinking long upon the Thread I shall take my chances there, though giddy with despair "A mortal enemy this must be who told this lie concerning me For I was never a very good poster, nor ever did intend to be" "Last night I saw the Forum clear, with rampant chaos drawing near And that is a sign since we were born that means there will be a deadly storm" They posted not more than a day, and quickly joined by Old Berli When loud and boisterous grew the crowds, who sought only to be Then up there came an Australian, a bet and glass all in his hand "Here's to you my merry young men for my money's on the Peng to stand"* "Long may the Forum lads all wait for that far off future date When Peng shall finally pass at last, and empty shall be his glass" When the Peng Challenge shall die at last And all of this shall finally pass Let nothing more of me be said than here is where I made my bed. SING, YOU SACKS OF IMPROPERLY METABOLIZED ALCOHOL, SING! *Said by Speedy, that Australian Git.

Eh, get back to your sheep, sweet-talker!

Today, on the first day after I became 'really old', I've achieved a milestone. A moment that most people never achieve. I'm talking about the prestigious 'Secondary Infestation' moment that most complete and utter tossers never achieve in their failure as 'housekeepers'. That's right, folks. I came home today to find that the rats that had taken over my apartment have attracted ferrets. Do you know how truly huge this is?! I mean, anyone can be the kind of slob that ends up with something like 'ants'. And many can achieve the kind of filth that results in cockroaches. But you move to another level when your cockroach infestation results in internecine vermin wars where rats show up to eat your cockroaches. But only a fecking Grand Master of Filth glides through that milestone moment to come home and discover that the infestation of rats in the apartment has been overtaken and resolved by a spontaneous infestation of ferrets. Fifteen minutes with a pellet gun later, and I'm on the way to my next year's pair of winter gloves, and nothing but quietude as far as the eye can see. It's like a sort of anti-Disney 'Circle of Life'. Instead of the 'Food Chain', you've got the '****e Chain'. I sit here in the still center of filth, and I know where I am. I am the Center. I am the Master. Everything proceeds from me. And all roads lead home. But that's not what I came to talk to you about, tonight. No, I came to talk to you about Boo Radley. I have, suddenly, in the way of a Society's suddenly pointing out completely obvious and annoying ****e to its members, become old. And Boo sent me a wonderful present. He sent me an 18" tall puppet figure of DEATH (posable), with the hand not clutching a scythe giving me the finger. I laughed until I wept, and vice versa. I am so old, that, like an Olde One of the Peng Challenge Thread, the final infestation of vermin in my apartment is a predator that destroys all other infestations. I am so old that, should another creature presume to present me with a 45 square foot sheet cake involving both vanilla and chocolate, and with a layer of 1.5 inch deep frosting from the finest bakers in town, I will not only spew it up upon you, but seek you out late at night and **** the consumed, retained, and processed bits out upon your chest. I am so old my bones ache, my memory wanders, and I have begun the process of desiring 'mercy' more than 'justice'. I am so old I no longer want a woman who understands me, but two women so inexperienced that they couldn't fathom me if 'Front Line' was explaining me in an expose on "Perversion in America". Mind, I'd want them at least two hours apart. And even then, they'd have to like bagpipes. Really loud. During. I am so old that I like less than half of humanity half as much as I should, and another third twice as much as they deserve, and the rest I'd beat to death with a cricket bat stolen from some limey bastard, see if I don't. I am so old that I no longer feel immortal. I am so old that I still behave as if I was immortal. And I am so old that I no longer enjoy behaving as if I was immortal. Worse, I will continue to behave as if I was immortal. I actually enjoy that last bit, a little. On a spiritual level. I am so old that there are things come due that I always swore I'd give up, other things in place that I swore I'd never take up, and some stuff is coming around again, that I'd made a promise to resume. Anyone out there with access to Hallucinogens (various), the Willingness to Sing Out Loud in Bars, or An Unmitigated Hope in Humanity, my email is in my Profile. Let's get weird. I am so old that I can take delight in the fact that most of my friends are sincerely evil sons o' bitches, with hearts of gold. I am so old that a lot of them are here, one way or another, as they say. I am so old that, all things considered, I AM INCREDIBLY FREAKING OLD AND WEIRD. It keeps me young, as they say.

You guys...friends! I'm...I will remember this moment...for as long as I can. EVERYBODY, SING! Where are my pants? And whose pants are these?

That's because the concept that I might be under the bed is more terrifying than the first, and the picture of me in a dress is more terrifying than the other.

Hush, now. Suffice to say that when you reach a certain age, with all your sins upon you and a wealth of self-knowledge such as to make Lady Macbeth's attempts to wash her crimes away appear 'quaint', it can rock you right back on your arse to find that you have friends. It is a hard world, filled with idiocy and violence, bigotry and stupidity. But what a marvelous place, that has such creatures in it as friends. I have spent an entire life achieving absolutely nothing. I have failed by the numbers, with an almost Germanic attention to detail. And yet... I find that I am rich. Hell gapes wide to receive me. And I laugh. I am a vile, bad person. Believe me, because I've checked. I am, quite frankly, a Horrible Little Man. But what a marvelous group of people I've managed to inflict myself upon. Including this place, the Peng Challenge Thread. Now, shut-up, stay safe, and drag your arse back home so I can come over there in August and scare your freaking kids.

Bloody hell. I haven't talked to Berli enough lately. Or Peng. And where is my Caliban, Boo? I feel like holding a demonstration for the 'Disappeared'. Let's give a shout to a few of those names, that they might never be forgotten. I know I will miss some, but late at night, they come to me in hideous, technicolour dreams anyways. So they are always with me. And I am never alone. Lorak! Mark IV! Croda! German Boy/Andreas! Geier! Elijah Meeks! Agua Perdido! Marlowe! Hiram Sedai! Goanna (Eldest Australian)! Moriarity! Bauhaus (sit down)! YK2! Mensch! Kitty! Hanns! MrSpkr! Aussie Jeff! And, finally, a nod to 'Minnesota Joe', who gave us 'The Cesspool'. I think that was his name. As age overwhelms every one of my abilities except the ability to rant on at great length about whatever comes into my diseased mind, I find myself taking comfort in the fact that many, many things are mercifully passing away. All the anger, all the outrage, all the angst is blurring into a fluffy pink collage of butterflies and pop tunes. Oh bugger. Wait, that might just be the insane amount of Brew Pub 'Anniversary Ale' that my friend Christine gave me last night...that, apparently, is based...now that I read her note...on the Smithwick's Barley Wine recipe...barley wine? Oh, bugger... Well, who's for a bit of spontaneous poetry, then, eh? Here's to the lads of the Peng Challenge Thread If they weren't still drinking, they'd probably be dead In Hell they await them with pitchforks and dread And a great big clipboard with every word that they've said. Here's to the Ladies who grace the Cesspool And their ongoing tolerance of bastards and fools They were courtly, and lovely, and maintained their cool While dispensing quick kicks to the family jewels. Here's to the fact that we're posting here still Untold thousands of posts of gibberish and swill We'll post while they let us And never forget this Until you showed up it was grey empty vastness Don't leave it as such, you vain stupid bastards Ack, feck, vile bad rhyme there, at the last. But you know what I mean.

Unlike the rest of you lot of tossers, Dalem was treated last night to something that has almost never been seen in the last 50 years of Western Civilization. He saw me left speechless. Oh, and Lars. Why were you driving a Honda back from Miami? There have to be cars in the Twin Cities that would have been just as easy to steal. Ask your cousins.

I am currently listening to Shaw's presentation of me in the Third Peng Challenge Thread Podcast, and, so far, the primary flaw I see in it is that Joe has edited out most of the truly revealing bits, and that I let Joe talk too much. I think that another Seanachai podcast should be scheduled soonest, and in the next one I do not allow Joe to talk at all. Also, I think we're going to need to do a 'CD Director's Cut' of my interviews, with all the really vile, filthy stuff put back in, as well as the Collector's Edition version of me singing the 'Hymn To Great Fred', as well as the truly, truly brutal stuff that I have to say about the lot of you, not to mention my 'Spoken Word' piece on "Australia: All The Ways to Hell". Also, I'm considering a lawsuit against the phone company for whatever they did to my voice to make me sound like some sort of freaking lawn ornament. My actual speaking voice is full, rich and deep, and sounds much more like James Earl Jones than is coming across in the podcast.

You were at the funeral, weren't you, Michael?

Yes, I believe the term was 'Illini', which amongst the aboriginal peoples meant 'Annoying, arrogant bastards who drive like ****e, talk too loud in South Wisconsin bars, and are otherwise unworthy of being considered human'. Funny how prescient native peoples were... Don't even TRY to go with this. You're simply not even in the fecking running. Poseur.

Dorosh, I'm saddened to hear you say something like that about a man like our Dalem, more sinned against than sinning, who is, very likely, going to be at work for another hour and a half, and who is so innocent and trusting that he leaves the door of his house unlocked. You're a little slow on the uptake, Grog Dorosh

Dorosh, I'm saddened to hear you say something like that about a man like our Dalem, more sinned against than sinning, who is, very likely, going to be at work for another hour and a half, and who is so innocent and trusting that he leaves the door of his house unlocked. You're a little slow on the uptake, Grog Dorosh

Dorosh, I'm saddened to hear you say something like that about a man like our Dalem, more sinned against than sinning, who is, very likely, going to be at work for another hour and a half, and who is so innocent and trusting that he leaves the door of his house unlocked. You're a little slow on the uptake, Grog Dorosh

That has an honest, properly self-effacing ring to it, Dalem, and I am glad to hear you've decided to let your heart finally show. See? Who's next? Boo?

That has an honest, properly self-effacing ring to it, Dalem, and I am glad to hear you've decided to let your heart finally show. See? Who's next? Boo?

That has an honest, properly self-effacing ring to it, Dalem, and I am glad to hear you've decided to let your heart finally show. See? Who's next? Boo?

I suddenly find myself in the position of a man empowered to hand out Papal dispensations. Everyone who has ever wanted Dalem to say something cringingly wonderful about them, suitable for quoting, line up and sing out...

I suddenly find myself in the position of a man empowered to hand out Papal dispensations. Everyone who has ever wanted Dalem to say something cringingly wonderful about them, suitable for quoting, line up and sing out...

I suddenly find myself in the position of a man empowered to hand out Papal dispensations. Everyone who has ever wanted Dalem to say something cringingly wonderful about them, suitable for quoting, line up and sing out...

I imagine that the problem is you simply need more material. Do you need me to make myself available so that you can record yet more of the vast, rich stream of wisdom and wit that pours off me as the gentle rains fall from heaven?

I imagine that the problem is you simply need more material. Do you need me to make myself available so that you can record yet more of the vast, rich stream of wisdom and wit that pours off me as the gentle rains fall from heaven?

I imagine that the problem is you simply need more material. Do you need me to make myself available so that you can record yet more of the vast, rich stream of wisdom and wit that pours off me as the gentle rains fall from heaven?

Shush. I'm remembering the sacrifices. Make nice, for a bit, and leave it be a sad moment, for just a second.