Seanachai

I wish I'd thrown you to the pit bulls with my own hands. You are excused from defending Civilization until you can prove that you know what the hell it is! </font>

Actually, that's not true. I've been to his home, and she was a lively little sprite, totally enamored of her 'Da', running and climbing everywhere and asking him to 'watch me, Daddy!' You're only about a year away from that, Roger. I was after talking to my friend Jen, tonight, about my friend, Small Emma. And I told her: You know, she's a happy little bugger. And why shouldn't she be? She has parents who love her, and they, and family, and friends (and especially Grandma Steve) tells her constantly: You're cute, you're smart, you're good, you're funny, you are loved. You're a silly bunny. And I said to my friend, Jen: Think how many children there are out there who— And she interrupted and said: Yeah, I know. Who never hear that. And I told her: Oh, hell no. They not only never hear that, but they only hear 'you're stupid, you're useless, you're lazy, what's wrong with you, I wish I'd never had you, etc. etc. etc.' And it made me realize. I probably don't tell you lot enough that...well...I love you. That's right. I love you! Frankly, I couldn't have created a better bunch of guys. Certainly even my vast talents couldn't have created a greater group of waterheads whose very existence cried out for someone to show up and tell them: It's alright, now. Be quiet, and stop pissing on the rug.

Yes. To Australians, they're the equivalent of being 'fisted' with a fig newton. To everyone else in the Known Universe, it's just another dreadful moment in the Aussie Food Repertoire Movie of Ongoing Hideousness. Seriously. These goddamn people do not have a cuisine! The best that can be said for them is that they have begun to question their inheritance from England, and have begun mimicking the American tendency to simply grill suspect meat over hot coals. You can talk about French cooking, or Italian cooking, or even Ukrainian cooking. There is no such thing as 'Australian cooking'. Australians just make food. Anything that could qualify as 'distinctly Australian' is, without question, absolutely fecking hideous.

I wish I'd thrown you to the pit bulls with my own hands. You are excused from defending Civilization until you can prove that you know what the hell it is!

Like a rabid panda bear full of seconal. </font>

Cats are excellent. They taste a little gamier than rabbit, but there's an almost infinite supply of the little vermin in town, so you never need go hungry. Generally, any recipe you'd use for rabbit can be used for cat.

Like a rabid panda bear full of seconal.

I just picked up my emails, and gotten one from a college friend that her Dad has died. I've met him, several times. He was a very good sort. It makes me think. I never married, and I'm not likely too. I have no children. I live in a filthy apartment surrounded by books and failed potential. I live, quite literally, from hand to mouth. I think that I have a very good life. I have marvelous friends. I know marvelous people. In a long life, I cannot count a single 'celebrity' as a friend. So I figure I'm doing okay. If a life is defined by the tapestry of who knows you, I'm a happy man. Sigh. Time for bed. Maybe tomorrow I will go stop by and see Small Emma. I'd like to leave a good memory, when I'm gone.

That's a beautiful story, Abbott. I suddenly feel all brutal and heavy-handed for mocking you. What the hell does a man have to do to garner the hatred that is rightfully his? I swear, sometimes if makes me crazy. A testimonial, dear friends! A strange...very strange, testimonial as to my personal character and... Dammit, Abbott, you're fecking weird.

That's because you've let the flow of mead stop. I demand mead!

Eh? Nothing becomes a man of action more than a good insult, you priss! But I will meet you on your own ground. Er...you don't have CMAK? What the hell? Saving the money to send your son to a school where they'll teach him to understand his father was the political equivalent of a Neandertal? No matter. I have all the disks here. Send me a setup. We will decide this like men. In the way that men do. Thrashing and shouting and cursing each other while playing a version of the game that has already been dismissed by time. Choice of sides is yours. Meeting Engagement, please, none of that 'choosing to attack' in a game that unnaturally favoured the attacker. 1500 points or so, or a reputable scenario of about that size. You have always been an honourable man, Roger. Daft as a brush, and politically as twisted as a corkscrew, but honourable. I look forward to attempting to boot your useless arse all around the pitch while singing 'I've Been a Wild Rover'. Oh, and do you know what annoys me most, right now? I could have been over at Dalem's eating his very fine spaghetti sauce and watching movies and carrying on, but I had to go have dinner with my family. Except, when I drove all the way down there, no one was home. And when I called my sister to find out what the hell was going on, I was told: 'Oh, didn't anyone call you? Jenny (my sister) went into the hospital! They think she has pneumonia! So we're not doing dinner tonight, and Mom is there now.' Christ on a crutch. Alright, I live north of the river. Alright, I live in the city. Alright, I'm the evil, black sheep of the family. But they could call, right?! On the positive front, my youngest sister is fine. Pneumonia, but not a big deal. I've spent all night being philosophical about it all. And if I'd gone to Dalem's, we'd simply be drunk by now, or something. Did I mention that in some realities, I'm worshipped as something like a god?

Abbott? I knew I should have shown up in that shotgun thread and told the bloody world that I am sick and tired of your macho posturing, your endless redneck 'pulled myself up by my own jockstrap' claptrap, your 'ooh, look at me, I'm a renegade biker-type that's gotten old' load of ****e! DO YOU HEAR ME, ABBOTT?! HEY, ABBBBOOTTTTTT! Actually, that's just my crusty, neo-liberal way of giving you a hug. What I'm really upset about is the fact that you never liked Wash. Oh, and the fact that you never sent me a letter, card or postcard filled with hate. Miserable bugger.

Ah, I am left despondent. I have watched the rest of my PBS program, and seen the Welsh defeated and whipped back into their mountains by the English. It is so sad. I mean, I already knew the history, so there were no surprises, but to see a proud, independent Celtic people defeated by the English...well, it makes me weep. Nothing left for the Welsh but to retire to massed men's choral groups singing 'Men of Harlech' and immersion in a particularly joyless form of Protestantism...

Who the heck are you talking to? Droning? You know that you only live to see what I might say next!

You're a good lad. But that's not how we do things here. I am not a tyrant. Well, actually, I am a tyrant. Worse than Stalin. But more sane. Roughly speaking. Perhaps very roughly. I believe that free people, in free conclave, will almost always do something stupid. But however stupid, it will invariably be better than what their masters will do, if left to their own devices. Because they will only act to benefit themselves.

I'm after watching a wonderful PBS program about the Welsh beating the living snot out of the English. Brings a tear to me eye...

Oh, be quiet. The cosmos is a pile of fetid dingo droppings. You want to understand the cosmos? Get your arse down under the bridge. And bring a bottle with you, you puppy!

Oh, goody. A 'vote'. How many fecking lifetimes is this going to drag on through? Trying to get some sort of 'vote' out of this lot it like trying to teach choral music to lemmings. What about an exchange of insults between myself and Roger? Let's set up a panel of judges, and have at it. According to the Rules of a Cesspool Insult Exchange (which I have just now, in the finest tradition, made up), the impanelled judges should be one Australian, one Seniour Knight, A Lady, and a Squire. Any ties to be decided by Peng himself.

Silence, toad. Many is the night that I have spent, clutching a bottle in a paper bag, contemplating the problems of the Universe and what should be done about them, under a picturesque and convenient railroad bridge. You'll probably find yourself under one some day in the not too distant future, lad. Especially if you become my squire. If you become Roger's squire, the best you can hope for is gainful employment, marriage, and children. Is that what you want from Life?

*the little jukebox in the head starts playing* I now hate you as much as I hate that song. *sob* </font>

So, what should we do here? I suppose we could watch the antics of the Thread Bureaucracy until cows learn to waltz. What are we going to do about Stoat?

Why do I get punished twice? </font>

You know, my friend Jen gave me a 'hot buttered rum' mixture for Christmas that I've just decided to try out... Hmmmm... Not bad, really... Hmmmm... ... ... You know... ... ... HEY, MISTER TAMBOURINE MAN, PLAY A SONG FOR ME! I'M NOT SLEEPY AND THERE IS NO PLACE I'M GOING TO! HEY, MISTER TAMBOURINE MAN, PLAY A SONG FOR ME IN THE JINGL JANGLE MORNING I'LL COME FOLLOWING YOU...

Last time I saw NGCavscout, the bugger had way more fur. Now, on top of a seemingly endless insurgency, mange has apparently struck Iraq!

What the hell is wrong with you? Get out there and give the poor little bastard some port! Call yourself a host, do you...