Seanachai

Well, you know, when I'm not being humourous, boisterous and loud to the point where other patrons complain to the Wait Staff, I have a tendency towards...melancholy. Truth be told, sometimes I go away from this fine place for days at a time because...I'm wallowing in a slough of despond. Like Hamlet, I sometimes find that 'I could be bounded within a nutshell, and yet count myself the lord in infinite space, were it not for the fact that I have...bad dreams.' That's not exact, of course. That was off the top of my 'excessively educated head'. Now, I'd like to make an important point. When I talk about 'slough of despond', and 'melancholy', and 'bad dreams', I don't think anyone should think about "Oh my goodness! He's depressed! Quick, to the Berliphone!" I am depressed. Sometimes. I'm short, fat, aging, unemployed and without prospects. On the other hand, I'm still me, and not you lot. Only the contemplation of being most of you tossers could lead one to contemplate suicide, for example. Thankfully, the gods have seen fit to ensure that I will, never, ever have to descend to that depth. I will remain 'me'. I never had to go. A bit too young. I was the last High School class that still had to register for the draft. Like many, I watched that War on TV. And, despite what some here might think, I always figured that, if called, I would go. Throughout that War, I was supportive. I believed. But, by the early 70s, I also had massive doubts. 'Containing Communism' seemed well and good (****e like that would have easily amused Dalem). But how do you 'Spread Democracy' in a Military Dictatorship whose last elected leader was overthrown and executed with American approval? It all seemed a bit murky, ethics-wise. But I never had to prove or disprove anything. Several years on, when Jimmy Carter had re-instituted 'The Draft', and younger friends were busy opposing it, I told some of them that I still had, and carried my Selective Service Card. They were all drunken enthusiasm, and they wanted me to go with them to 'burn my draft-card'. I told them 'No, it is my card. I am, actually, well-past the age where I would probably have to serve (amusingly, or perhaps not, I was only in my late twenties, and far younger than many Guardsmen and Reservists currently in combat in Iraq), and, although I do not approve of The Draft, nor of the War I was on the arse-end of, I would serve my country.' Mind you, I would have been pissed-off. Of course I would understand. And I would not accept it, if you include posting here. Or, for that matter, most anywhere. Hell, if you get right down to it, I don't actually accept it at all. 'WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO, MARINE? ARE YOU GOING TO CRAWL OFF INTO A CORNER AND SULK ABOUT THE STUPIDITY OF THE WORLD?! ARE YOU GOING TO WRAP YOURSELF IN A COCOON OF HURT AND ANGST, AND TRY TO IGNORE THE FACT THE WORLD NEVER SEEMS TO GET BETTER? OR ARE YOU GOING TO STAND UP HERE, AND EVERYWHERE, AND SPEAK YOUR MIND?' You and yours fought for this country, and you suffered, and you died, and that makes You mighty. Is the only thing I'm going to hear about War going to come from a self-serving Administration of Liars and PR Whores, none of whom ever served their country, or 17-25 year old video-game arseholes whose only understanding comes from 'Jackass' & 'Fight Club' videos, and most of whom will also never serve their country? If you stop posting, a short, fat Gnome will haunt your fecking dreams!

An Optimist is someone who believes that this is as good as it gets. A Pessimist is someone with a nagging dread that the Optimist might be right. Michael </font>

You know, one day I'm going to not have to look up how to link to the new thread. I'll just know it. Oh Frabjous Day. Until then, follow my sodding URL code to here: The Peng Challenge Thread By Me Yet Again.

Ah, yes, the obligatory reading of 'The Rules'. The Rules, like the The Truth, are out there. Gods forbid either should ever find us, cowering in a corner beside a broken toilet with a ballpeen hammer in our hands, mumbling something about 'technicolour goldfish'. This is the Peng Challenge Thread. Amuse us. Do so without obsessing about your manly bits, any personal prejudices that do not reinforce my own (which are legion, but firmly based in the fact that you, without question, are a useless fecking tosser, and I'm what the next Messiah would be like if he had a better sense of humour and was shorter), and if you can manage to do so without unduly annoying the Ladies of the 'Pool. There's a hierarchy here that is so convoluted and Byzantine that no reasonable human being who hadn't been posting here for the last 6 freaking years could rationally be expected to understand it. That doesn't mean that your ignorance of it will be dealt with reasonably. In fact, it gives everyone here another sock filled with sand to beat you with. Sorting out what the hell is actually going on, who is who, what is what, what's permitted and what is not, is part of the fun of this place! If you're not up for it, simply sod off now, bugger off after you don't get the strokes and cuddling you expect, or get a furry brown dog up ya' in general. I could care. Really. I'm one of the Olde Ones of this Thread, having started the nightmarish original tumpty years ago, and have been everything from banned, to a false god, to the current Chronicler of the Apocalypso. I personally know all four Horsemen of the Apocalypso. And you probably don't even know what the hell I'm talking about, and/or are Finnish. [ January 14, 2006, 11:41 PM: Message edited by: Seanachai ]

May I just say that my large, thuggish henchman Boo... TOTALLY BANGS ROCKS TOGETHER! This is so completely humourous, Boo, that only a feckin' phone call could encompass it. Expect a call...

And I remain. Amidst the fools, the idjits, the SSNs. Despite Ol' Foul Joe's Rules. Despite all. Despite the belittlement of my own fine self, and despite the abuse. Despite the fact that there's not one poster in six that could turn a good phrase, or mock like they meant it, or do more than muddy the waters of Challenge. I am given over to the knowledge that, this is as good as it gets. Man, all I can say is: Gods bless the night. And gods bless Dylan.

I have, lately, been dreaming about my sister. She comes to me, and she tells me things. Mostly, she tells me that I'm stupid. She's dead, so she should know, I figure. A long December and there’s reason to believe Maybe this year will be better than the last I can’t remember the last thing you said as you were leavin’ Now the days go by so fast I miss her a lot, you know. She was way smart. Always looking to take care of us all, and she never could. We were too chaotic a bunch, and the most of them...they didn't need taking care of. Probably just me, and I was glad to be there, to be what she saw needed taking care of. The smell of hospitals in winter And the feeling that it’s all a lot of oysters, but no pearls She always took after our Dad, you see. Outside the drinking and anger, that is, and just kept herself to being busy and dramatic and wanting to make sure everyone was happy. She was...shiny. Drove up to the Hillside Manor sometime after two a.m. And talked a little while about the year I guess the winter makes you laugh a little slower, Makes you talk a little lower about the things you could not show her And it’s been a long December and there’s no reason to believe Maybe this year will be better that the last I can’t remember all the times I tried to tell myself To hold on to these moments as they pass

That's a cute child. Puts me in mind of my friend, Small Emma. A better year to us all.

And I will come here, to the Peng Challenge Thread, until the sky falls and the rivers run backwards. And this is why. You just keep taking care of yourself, lad. And know that I...er, hate you. A lot. You're a good lad, NGCavscout. And I shan't cease prayers to the Goddess until you are home. After that, you're on your own. Well, I may render up a prayer to you and yours for a while more. But that's just because I'm weak. Never mention it, lad. The rabbit did all the real work. Guidance and guarding to you and yours in this new year. Let you come home safe to your children, and every father come home safe to his children. As the Goddess sees me, and hears me, and knows her own, let you and yours know joy.

And your youngest daughter? When was the last time you sent me a picture of your children, you feck? Do you think that I continue to exist in this hideous state of failure without the promise of hope?! The hope that something good will come after us all?! Do you know what, young NGCavscout? I no longer remember your real name. It's not to be wondered at, I no longer remember my own. But you have a nice house there, in Beloit. Nice kids. A nice wife. I remember that. I remember, that, as these things go, you were a nice guy. It's amazing. So far, I've met Peng, Berli, Joe Shaw, Dalem, Lars, Papa Khann, Shandorf, Moriarity, Bauhaus, Rune, Patch and NGCavscout face to face. Also, the long gone DekeFentle. One by one, they come to me. I am a fecking god. Thank goodness it hasn't made me proud, or anything. I'm still the humble, wild-haired half-wit, capering about the Wasteland. I hope, before I die, to have met many more of you tossers. Get a shuffle on, fer chrissake. I'm an old man, and the world's going to hell.

Hey that sounds like fun! Exactly what time in the real world is 3am in Snowville? </font>

Why do these SSN's always insist on using such archaic constructions. Are they trying to impress the justicar, do they think it's posh? </font>

At the psychiatrist, seeking councilling for the trauma of witnessing that? </font>

Ah, abuse. And aren't you and I after having shared breakfast, and sorted out the world, then, eh? Didn't I have to sort out the nightmarish slums of Beloit in order to come to your own home, meet you face to face, and meet your wife and fine daughter? Didn't I rip the guts out of a rabbit on the Solstice, with a heartfelt prayer to the Goddess that you would return home safe? (By the by, I did the rabbit up in a wonderful rosemary sauce saute later that night; the gods, being ethereal aren't after having any use for the sacrifice after the fact, and it's a shame to let the bunny go to waste). And now, now... Well. That's how it's to be, eh? You're going to ponce about, blowing me kisses and calling me 'Stephanie', or some such, and projecting your own rather bizarre 'fashion sense' on me, eh? NGCavscout, I'M NOT AFTER TAKING THAT OFF OF YOU, YOU HORRIBLE LITTLE MAN! Do you want me to tell this lot the truth? That you stopped playing CM in order to wallow in Rome: Total Art of War? How's the wife and family doing, tosser? Keep your worthless self safe, goddamnit. If anything were to happen to you, I'd...well, I'd be put out. Unhappy, don't you know. Isn't it about time you got your arse home so that we can hate you with the knowledge that the worst we have to contemplate is your being shot by some meth junky in East Beloit?

Good one, Lars. Now, imagine who has more to lose by a pissing match involving repeated 3 AM phone calls comprised of maniacal laughter and abuse: A guy with a fiancee and a job, or a lunatic with no employment, no prospects and all the time in the world? Wasn't it bad enough sitting for 45 minutes in the cold on Dalem's doorstep? Frankly, at this point, the only thing you've got going for you is Shari, and I don't imagine it will take more than 3 nights of brutal, unrelenting harassment before she simply duct-tapes the phone to your head and makes you sleep on the couch.

This is alltogether unreasonable... As much as it pains me, I'll have to take option two. </font>

It is indeed an honour to meet the noble founder of our House. I was beginning to think you were more of an abstract concept than an actual person. </font>

THE FRENCH!!!

By the way, have I mentioned that Dalem is clearly Jayne, no matter how much he protests and tries to rise to the Captaincy? And Abbott, me little lad... I am Wash.

ROIGHT! I CAN'T BE HAVING WITH THIS! Juan and v42Below, you are both now charged by the Olde Ones of the Peng Challenge Thread with writing a lengthy essay on 'Seanachai: The Glory of Hatred'. Or know forever my undying wrath.

You horrible little swine. I've killed men for less than that...

Everything looks good from here. Yes. Yes, this is a fertile land, and we will thrive. We will rule over all this land, and we will call it... This Land.

It's called a 'sin tax'. You're paying more for the right to commit a crime against your palate, taste, and humanity.

That's going to affect the 'puppet' answer, you ass...

Dear God, it's like you've got a Web-cam into my life. Do you work for the NSA? Is that your secret, Michael? Here all this time I assumed you were simply an aging crank living in a shack in rural Washington State, a relatively sane version of the Uni-bomber. But now, it seems, you might be the local processing node of the NSA's domestic intel operation. Quick! How many fingers am I holding up? And how many of them have puppets on them?