Seanachai

Dear God...Shandorf is still alive? I thought you went to Texas, but your profile says you're still up there in BP. This of course begs the real question: Why are you still alive, Shandorf? Funny thing, I was just thinking about your worthless self the other day. Nothing good, of course. And Emma-kins? I seem to still be here. I've actually thought about trying to pull the MrPeng "Die, die, leave me alone, I'm leaving forever!". But, like a moth drawn to the flame, I seem to always return...

Me for bed, then, you tossers. And a jolly singsong to you, before I disappear: Sit down by the fire And I’ll tell you a story To send you away to your bed Of the things you hear creeping When everyone’s sleeping And you wish you were out here instead It isn’t the mice in the wall It isn’t the wind in the well But each night they march Out of that hole in the wall Passing through on their way Out of hell They’re the things that you see When you wake up and scream The cold things that follow you Down the boreen They live in the small ring of trees on the hill Up at the top of the field And they dance on the rain And they dance on the wind They tap on the window When no-one is in And if ever you see them Pretend that you’re dead Or they’ll bite off your head They’ll rip out your liver And dance on your neck They dance on your head They dance on your chest They give you the cramp And the cholic for jest They’re the things that you see When you wake up and scream The cold things that follow you Down the boreen They live in the small ring of trees on the hill Up at the top of the field They play on the wind They sing on the rain They dance on your eyes They dance in your brain Remember this place It is damp and it’s cold The best place on earth But it’s dark and it’s old So lie near the wall And cover your head Good night and God bless, Now **** off to bed Sit Down By the Fire -the Pogues

Oh, Yeknod. Are you asking me to dance? It's gonna be a better year, Donkey.

Jarheads, Jarheads, Jarheads Oi, Oi, Oi! 'Course, it'll all just make them get even more above themselves. Annoying buggers. Makes you sympathize with the whole desire to produce WMDs.

My email? Which email, Stuka, you git? Look I don't want it enhanced! I just want it to shut the hell up and leave me alone! I'm an old man!

And here's a great big fierce hug to MrPeng, without whom none of this would have been necessary!

I wouldn't stress it Boo, not only does Sean-itchy not send turns, he doesn't reply to freindly chit-chat emails either, must be using that PDA to access Gnome porn or sumfink.... </font>

You shower!! I'm sitting in a coffee shop in South Minneapolis and I'm using my new wireless pda to tell you all: HAPPY NEW YEAR! Now bugger off and someone get me a beer. Bloody Aussies, make yourselves useful!

Every day that I post on this Forum, I'm confronted by the fact that I post on this Forum. I encounter lives that have nothing to do with my own. And I impose my own, rather feckless silly life, on everyone else that posts here. Sometimes, I'm not sure what keeps me posting. Is it simple hubris? Arrogance? Idiocy? But I know what keeps me coming back. It's that touch of magic I only ever got previously from music. I've met a great lot of folk that I'd never otherwise meet. Marines. Soldiers. Aussies. Brits. Canadians. Kiwis. Grogs. Foreigners. Idjits. Fools. I feel...blessed. It's like I've received a great benediction. Neo-con whores, donkeys, Ladies. Peng. Berli. You lot. All of you. It has all...been amazing. Finns. Latvians. South-African Frenchies. Wine, women and song. Best damn place I've ever been. So I bring what I have to it. My arrogance, my anger, my words. My losses. My joys. My sense of place. My stories. My sense of myth. My love. It may not be enough. Not compared to what you've all given to me. But if I was to worry about that sort of thing, about the imbalance between what I've ever contributed to what I've enjoyed, I'd never stop cursing. Well, but let's face it. I will never stop cursing. You cocksuckers. So, the ending of a year, and the beginning of another. And I still seem to be here. Goddamnit. Everything slips through these cold fingers Like trying to hold water, trying to hold sand Close your eyes and make a wish, and listen to the singer One more round, bartender, pour a double if you can

Who's for a jolly singsong, then, eh? An old favourite... When I tell you that I love you Don't test my love Accept my love, don't test my love Cause maybe I don't love you all that much Don't ask what kind of music I'm gonna play tonight Just stay awhile, hear for yourself awhile And if you must put me in a box, make sure it's a big box With lots of windows And a door to walk through And a nice high chimney So we can burn burn burn everything that we don't like And watch the ashes fly up to Heaven Maybe all the way to India I'd like that All the ancient kings came to my door They said "Do you want to be an ancient king too?" I said "Oh yes very much But I think my timing's wrong" They said "Time is relative Or did you misread Einstien" I said "Do you really mean it?" They said "What do you think we come here for Our goddamn health or something?" Everybody's waiting for the Messiah The Jews are waiting The Christians are waiting Oh so are the Muslims It's like everybody's waiting They been waiting a long time I know how I hate to wait Like even for a bus or something An important phone call So I can imagine how darned impatient Everyone must be getting So I think it's time now Time to reveal myself I am the Messiah I am the Messiah Yes I think you heard me right I am the Messiah I was gonna wait till next year Build up the suspense a little Make it a really big surprise But I could not resist It's like when you got a really big secret You're just bursting to tell someone It was kinda like that with this And now that I've told you I feel this great weight lifted Dr. Nusbaum was right He's my therapist He said get it out in the open I spent ten whole days in Jerusalem Mmmm Jerusalem sweet Jerusalem And all I ate was olives Nothing but olives Mountains of olives It was a good ten days I like olives I like you too So When I tell you that I love you Don't test my love Accept my love, don't test my love Cause maybe I don't love you all that much Jerusalem -Dan Bern

Yeah, and my phone is busy, and I should be hated with the power of a thousand novae. And I could call you, you lame whore, but I'm presently typing, don't you see? Response?

Good on you, then, eh! Damn good Catholic whisky. I'm going off to wander the neighbourhood. It's bloody cold out. But I'm never alone, see? Because that bastard Berli sent me his old iPod. So I've got all that music, eh, to take me out of myself while I stump my way through the late night streets. I bought some new light-weight headphones tonight, so I could put a proper soundtrack to winter, and that late night, near-death experience. If I make it back home, later on, you'll hear more from me. Winter is a glory. If you screw-up, you die. Who could ask for more than that from the Land? But until it puts me down, I shall listen to the Rolling Stones, and Counting Crows, and Pink Floyd, and Altan, and any number of others... And trust in the fact that I am from the North, and of the North, and that if it's my time to die, then I shall die in the North. I pity you lot who know the seasons as less than the risk of death...

It's winter in Minnesota. Most of you lot are too weak to cope. Here, the seasons hit like hammers. Aussies, Limeys, Easterners, Southerners, Texans. You're like children pretending to understand the realities of the world. Here in Minnesota we understand about the world. The Land kills the weak. But the weak have rights, too. Here, the strong make a place for the weak. We may despise you, but we will preserve you. We will give you sanctuary. I'm sure you're laughing. All you lot of weaklings from pleasant climes. You come here, and you do a winter. And you'll know. Our State will kill you without a thought. Ask Lars.

Why? Is the scotch all gone?

I'll stay with the scotch, damn your Aussie soul. And the cheap cigar. Is there any here to bandy words with me? Is there any here who would choose to match me, insult for insult? Is there any here with the hair to address me? What's with this 'Stoat' bugger? Pah! Step up, you small, dying creatures. Get in the fecking queue, and make it sting, eh? Must I always abuse my peers, and never take to task the sniveling weasels that seek to replace us?! BRING ME GIANTS!

Bah! I wave my hand at you. You shouldn't make mock of an evil bastard that you couldn't beat with a scout axe in either hand, Stuka fella. Nothing is more evil than those who've lived past their time, take it from me. Nor more powerful.

WHERE'S MY OWN BRUTISH THUG, THEN, EH? WHERE'S MY CALIBAN, BOO? HELP ME, BOO! THEY'RE TRYING TO CRUCIFY ME!

When we are sober? Sure. OMIFECKINGGOD, LOOK! THERE'S PIGS FLYING!

Hahahahahaha! Go to the General Forum, Hated One!

What's that, you shower? Have another scotch? Why, I think I'll do just that...

The only decent Aussie beer in my opinion is Hahn Premium and more or less anything from Tasmania. When In New Zealand, Steinlager is the go, however as for the rest of the Australian 'beer', its best left to the suburban white trash that infect this land. I regard myself as a beer snob...I know what i like and its not Aussie swill...or Budweiser... </font>

I didn't say I'd 'revoke' it, Joe. That's simply not possible. I said that if you didn't call me 'Mister Seanachai', I'd break you. There's all sorts of ways to break a man. To date, I'm familiar with 37 of them. So just you get busy and call me 'Mister Seanachai', and I won't have to start on the repertoire. I don't ask for much, you know. But when I ask, I ask with the voice of a man, seated around a fire in the Wasteland, who's looking at the last inch of scotch in the bottle...

I took the shop-lifted bottle of windex and discarded underpants out of your hands there at that Salt Lake City highway underpass where you were villainously smearing the windshields of tourist cars and made you the Justicar of the Peng Challenge Thread, and I can put you right back there. You can't always get what you want You can't always get what you want You can't always get what you want But if you try sometimes you might find You get what you need... Old Foul Joe, you have mocked and derided me at every turn for the last year. It is time that I remind you that you are the 'Igor' to my 'Master'... No, wait, that's Boo... Where the hell is Boo? In any case, Justicar...I made you, and I can break you. We're as near as dammit to the End of the Year, Joe. And I want to hear you say it. Go on, Joe. Call me 'Mister Seanachai'. Do it. In your inner-most, authoritarian heart, you know you need to...

Actually, I ended up at a 'beer tasting' (frankly, it was simply a 'beer swilling' event hosted by the local distributor) at Epcot Center at Disney World. One of the bottles (I'd taken a table for two with it's silver bucket of mixed beers, and growled at anyone who looked like they might sit at my table to share 'my' beers) was Stella Artois. I'd never had it before. When the 'Instructor' started her spiel about the beers in our buckets, she asked if anyone there was familiar with 'Stella Artois', and this Brit couple raised their hands, and the wife said: "Yes. In England, we call it 'Wife Beater'." It was fairly tasty. A fairly limp beer. Not disgusting, and Papa Khann loves it. Once, one of the finest, most destructive Danish beers going. I believe that 'Carlsberg Elefant' is still brewed in Denmark. 5 of these would rip the arse out of even an Australian. Do you know, this American beer is frankly piss. But it's better than Australians deserve. Because they don't export their decent beers. So screw 'em.

When the train left the station, it had two lights on behind, Yeah, the train left the station, it had two lights on behind, Yeah, the train left the station, it had two lights on behind, Well, the blue light was my baby and the red light was my mind. All my love’s in vain. It's a quiet night in Minnesota. The snow lies deep, and cold. Everything looks like a fecking Christmas card. But in one apartment, there's the sound of music, and cursing. And there's a score of harebrained children They're all locked in the nursery They got earphone heads they got dirty necks They're so 20th century Well they queue up for the bathroom 'Round about 7:35 Don'cha think we need a woman's touch to make it come alive? MERRY CHRISTMAS, YOU SHOWER! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Let's hope the year coming is more than you lot of swine deserve.