Seanachai

Speaking of 'descent', 'ignorance' and 'bloody minded bastards', it's probably time for me to post some 'feedback' about the Rune scenario that I'm currently playing with Lars. I'm sure that Rune expected more feedback by now. If so, he probably shouldn't have made the map encompass 120,000 square acres of wheat and flame covered wilderness. After 20 some turns of steady advance, my troops have definitively established that Lars' troops aren't currently huddled in a corner of the map, but must, in fact, be somewhere more in the middle. I've lost all contact with one company after they took wives from the local population and settled down to grow barley and raise pigs. Another company has recently checked in to inform me that they think they've found a private hunting preserve originally owned by the Shah of Iran, and a platoon of Sherman tanks is currently trying to work out a common language with a lost stone age tribe who's currently building stone megalith depictions of their bogged AFVs. There's a very good chance that I will never have to actually fight Lars's troops, because by the time I reach them they will have succumbed to depression, alcoholism and disease. Occasionally I've been informed that I have 'reinforcements', but a thorough search of the map has only turned up about half of them. Where the others came in, I have no clue. Hopefully they are achieving rich lives of meditation and artistic pursuits. Since the sodding scenario is 70+ turns, I imagine that all of them will eventually be reintegrated into the war, but it's hard to say. Possibly the final fire-fight will be carried out by their sons.

Okay, Joe, quoting the dictionary is the last refuge of a man who's descended to the level of dangling shiny objects in front of the chimps while frantically reassuring himself that he hasn't descended to any level at all. Do not post excerpts from the dictionary. That sort of thing simply panders to the ignorance of the hominids.

You made that up, didn't you? </font>

I'm sure that you tell yourself that every time before you take advantage of yourself. Do you buy yourself dinner, first, or do you simply get drunk, get into the car, and shove your own head into your lap?

Then somewhere there's a homeless guy, drooling into his lap, who's missing his evening discussion of the arts. Boo, my demented hench-creature, an evening's conversation with you is like a Chautauqua with an australopithecine. Not that there's anything wrong with that, of course. Or with you. You're just as God made you, Torg— er, Boo. Well we're back from the Shadows again Out where Boo Radley's your friend Where the vegetables are green and you can pee right into the stream! (and that's important) Yes we're back from the Shadows, again!

The trip to Canada to scatter my sister's ashes was a great success (given that they were successfully smuggled over the border, I can make public the fact that our Lake Cabin is in Canada). Well, except for the fact that we didn't actually scatter her ashes. On the morning of the Memorial, me Mum started freaking out a bit about the whole 'scattering her ashes over the lake' as we drove around our island in boats, so we decided to forego the actual 'scattering'. Of course, there was a lot of agonizing by me Mum over whether we were right in not scattering them, so I, the ever helpful son, pointed out: "Look, Mom, the whole island draws it's water supply from the lake. If we scatter Kat's ashes in the lake around the island, we're all going to be showering with her later, and we're just not that Southern..." It was difficult to tell, through the weeping, if she found this helpful or not. So we kept the ashes in the urn, and now she's keeping an eye on the cabin for us when we're not there. We did all get in the boats, each of us with a white rose that our Aunt Diane brought up, and we drove in stately procession around the island. When we were opposite our cabin, in between our Island and Clyde's Island (named after our Dad; screw whatever the Canadians think the name of the island is...), we all threw our roses into the water, and the little kids all threw handfuls of white rose petals into the lake as we drove away. And as the huge flock of gulls, attracted by the activity, began to stoop upon the floating flowers and petals, scooping them up, and then spitting them out when they discovered they weren't scraps of food, my youngest sister leaned over to me and said: 'Jesus Christ, it's just as well we didn't scatter the ashes, or Mom would be treated to the sight of gulls diving after the remains, and that would probably send her right over the freaking edge!' So the little kids are all solemn and crying, and us adults are all laughing our arses off, pointing at the gulls, and trying to catch our breath. We were able to hide the greater part of our levity from our Step-father, although why we bothered, I simply don't know, as it would have bugged the ****e out of his straight-laced German Lutheran soul and amused us even more. Which would have been only fair, because the bugger made us listen to a CD full of hymns in the car on the way up (thank the gods and His Evil Darkness for that iPod Berli sent me...) We're a rather irreverent family, actually. It was a glorious weekend. Everyone drank much wine, including several bottles of Moet Chandon White Star that my Aunt brought up to toast Kat's memory (she loved Moet Chandon). We drank it at a shoreline lunch with fresh walleye, hamburgers and hot dogs, 5 bean dish, and coleslaw. French champagne's finest moment. Afterwards, everyone got hammered on Labatt's Blue Label and Guinness. We caught a lot of walleye. I went kayaking for 4 hours on Saturday, and am now attempting to re-grow the skin on my face and forearms. We had a bonfire Saturday night, and we all sang songs around it. At the request of my many, many nieces, nephews and second cousins, I sang that fine old Spiritual 'The Hymn to Great Fred', as well as my version of 'The Hedgehog Can Never Be Buggered At All', and the fine Australian song 'He's Nobody's Moggie Now'. The men of the family all smoked Cuban cigars. The women drank fine Chardonnay. A puppet show was performed with children's socks that shouldn't have been worn out of the cabin without shoes on. Some people cried. Everyone laughed. No one threw up. It was a marvelous weekend. All in all, it was a very successful second funeral. We're thinking of repeating it every year; each year, pretending again that we're going to 'scatter the ashes', and each year deciding 'no, not yet, we're not ready just yet. Maybe next year.' Each year, my sister, wherever she is, can smile a long, slow smile as we all get together to acknowledge her death, and end up celebrating our lives. Each year she can listen to the same damn stories about when we were young, when she was young, when we got older, and, eventually, she can listen to the stories that will grow out of her endless, oft delayed, and eternal funeral. And one by one we, too, will pass on, pass over, and leave nothing more than a memory. We will die, all those of us who knew her, loved her, and sat with her while she died. But the possibilities! Ah, the fish-fries of the future! The five bean dishes yet to come, the wine yet to be drunk, the cigars yet to be smoked, the stories yet to be told! If I could have my wish, it would be that after I am gone, there will be this gang of aging, somewhat sobered by time gang of people who are now teens and children, still fishing, still singing, still laughing... And telling a whole new gang of children: You should have been there, in the day, at the Eternal Funeral which was the Greatest Celebration ever, when Uncle Steve sang the 'Hymn to Great Fred', and 'the Hedgehog Song'... Oh, and Dalem, you ignorant toad. Thanks for lending me the MST3K tape of 'Girl's Town'. We watched it Sunday night, and my youngest sister laughed so hard she got a stomach ache. We had to keep pausing and rewinding to explain some of the jokes to the younger kids, and some of them weren't jokes appropriate to younger kids, but they loved them. Man, think about it! Maybe someday kids will be saying 'Oh, look, Uncle Seanachai's back from fighting Nazis on the moon!'

Scotch. Lots and lots of Scotch. Oh, you won't win, but you won't care, either. Also, make fun of and abuse Grog Dorosh. That won't do much for you, probably, but it will certainly make me feel better.

Now is the winter of our discontent made glorious... What the hell has been going on around here?! If I want to see gibberish like this, I'll go to a freaking Trekkie convention! Christ on a crutch falling over with spread fingers saying 'live long and prosper', could we take this freaking Thread on to a higher plane of existence?

Bah! Are we being treated to another episode of 'Boo, the Inadvertent Torturer'? Like you ever plan anything more complex than a bowel movement. But I like the concept of 'Boo, the Inadvertent Torturer'. Sounds like a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta as done by Terry Giliam. I think I'll work on the libretto...

And a hell of a Sushi chef...

This is not an issue, because I never bother to get up anymore. I just stay down there. Many jokes have been made about my height, but the truth of the matter is I just don't bother to stand upright anymore. I will send you a setup when I return. Tomorrow morning, I am leaving Minneapolis for the Northern Wilds. My family is going up to our lake cabin to scatter my sister's ashes. When I return, I will explain to all of you again why it is that I am your Master, and you are a pack of groveling hounds. Having fixed my email issues, I made a super-Gnomish effort this evening, and got all turns out. Look for them in your email box.

I'm allowed near small children because I am, in fact, a wonderful font of wisdom and supportiveness. However, there is currently a restraining order in effect that forbids me from approaching any building and/or employee of MSN's technical support service...

Dear God... Now I imagine I'll have to apologize to Joe, and even Dalem, because this is, without a doubt, the WORST FECKING THREAD TITLE EVER.

Oh, good. Stuka's back! I only read his posts, actually, to remind myself what it was like to be young.

No. Lots of people 'dig Sci-Fi'. You have an autographed picture of Marina Sertis in your freaking basement. You're just not right, fella. Anyone who's relying on Dalem's support in this discussion, is looking to a man who doesn't simply have all the original Star Trek episodes (with William Shatner, fer chrissake), on DVD, but a goddamn CD of the 'Original Star Trek Series Music'. I mean, what kind of fecking junkie buys a CD of Star Trek music themes? What's worse is, you can stand there, drunk, in his kitchen, and ask: What episode is this from? And he'll reel it off as though he was on the set. That's just not right. There should be more to Human Existence than that. Dalem is a deeply, deeply damaged human being; so lost in a fantasy world that any division between 'right' and 'wrong' is almost indistinguishable from his belief that 'Captain James T. Kirk' is the greatest leader of our time. I will not condemn him, but I cannot, in all good conscience, ignore the fact that many Serial Killers boast a more normal profile of behaviour. Do not hate him. But do not look to him for anything other than the gibberings of a poster who wants nothing more than 'to be respected by his peers', despite the fact that No One, literally No One who isn't a fecking halfwit, thinks that William Shatner is even a real actor. Besides that, Dalem is a big big fecking freak. I'd kill him in a minute, if it wasn't for the entertainment value...

You can just use Seanachai's copy when you move in together. Are you going to network your computers together? -dale </font>

Yeah, yeah, welcome back, and I mean that welcome. For the rest of it, bugger off. I mean, are we going to have to endure another thread on how 'CMX2 Should Represent the Cold War Conflict Between the Empire and the Rebels', with a fecking script by that lamest of all screenwriters, George Lucas? Jesus. At what point in time will the Motel Fantasy Industry finally advance far enough to give Unfulfilled Wargamers that rush of pus to the brain that indicates that 'Wars That Never Happened' have finally been rushed to an orgasmic conclusion? And all for only $39.99 a night? Howdy, Max! CMX2 will be an almost idiotic depiction of a conflict that never happened, and for which there are no hard statistics, but for which a whole generation of complete fecking halfwits stand on guard to vow that however limp, lame, and stupid the depiction might be, that it twere better, in those times, to portray idiocy, than make a good game. Oh, wait! That was in one of those stupid: I want the New Game to somehow mimic the shape my penis gets when I contemplate the fact that I demand that I could have, no matter what anyone says, put wood to Insert Whatever Current Lame Female Diva You Like. Hang around for a few more minutes. Any number of current Board members will show up to tell you what 'the New Game' should be like. Hopefully, before they become too feverish, and start shouting, their Mom will show up to tell them that they need to come up out of the basement and pay for their 'double pepperoni with extra cheese'. And ask them to rake the lawn tomorrow, now that Spring is here.

What's this 'Creepy Gnome' ****e? Where do you get off going with 'Creepy Gnome'? You can be fined for saying that in the temple...

You never ask me to go fishing. Of course, are there any Walleyes left in that lake of yours that aren't so polluted with beer, petrol and semen run-off that they're still worth eating?

You wound me more deeply than you'll ever know, Your Majesty. </font>

Wondered where you'd been. Bauhaus, STAND UP! Play that theme man. Jackass will jump and bray, let him bray, let him bray I say the Jackass will jump and bray, Lordy let him bray, let him bray, everybody! Now I tell you in a positive way Don’t tie me donkey down there Cause me donkey will rump and play Don’t tie me donkey down there Now me donkey gone mad they say Don’t tie me donkey down there “Cause his eye on a bale o’ hay Don’t tie me donkey down there Now the news really travel fast Don’t tie me donkey down there When me donkey in the meadow grass Don’t tie me donkey down there Now me heart is light and gay Don’t tie me donkey down there He haw ‘till judgment day Don’t tie me donkey down there Jack-Ass Song -Harry Belafonte

Man, first minnow of the season... By the gods, that's good eating!

Now, imagine you arrived at work, and got on MSN Messenger,and found that a complete, utter, and drunken lunatic, that you fecking knew to be capable of anything were online. And this person and/or being offered to attack your co-workers and/or bosses for you by email, or even via their direct dial phone number. Would you be such a limp-wristed bastard that you wouldn't give said 'drunken lunatic' the email address and/or direct dial number of your boss to said lunatic, who was really, really alert, awake, and in such a state that he would make your boss doubt the very existence of both God and Justice by his subsequent brutal abuse? Boo, you're a big big chocolate eclair. If your boss ****s on your head this coming year, remember that you had the opportunity to make him cower in a corner for weeks, wondering when the 'crazy, horrible man' might show up and make good on his threats to 'lick him all over in the dark, and foster a new race of mutant drug users on his wife while singing Harry Belafonte tunes'. You simply don't have the will to be a disgruntled employee. How often does a Human Assault Rifle fall into your hands?

So that's where you were going with the hug and tongue thing? Ewuuuuuuuuuuu! *shudders* Mace </font>

I'm almost certain that I will die long before what would otherwise have been 'my time'. My Dad died when he was 57, and his dad died at 62. My Mom's dad died when he was 64, in horrible agony, from pancreatic cancer. I have whole banks of internal organs that are there, in the early morning, that tell me how much they hate me. What keeps me young is that even my most obstreperous and hateful internal organs hate you lot more than they hate me. And that's saying something. So, I anticipate hating you lot for a long time to come. But, should I suddenly be taken off by an internal mistake, I want you lot to know that I hate you even more than my liver hates me. And that's saying something. It's Spring here, in Minnesota. It was 34 degrees with snow flurries here this afternoon. I know that sometimes I'm away, and don't let you know what you all mean to me. I hate you the way the Church hates heretics. I hate you the way that the Rich hate the Poor. I hate you the way that the Government hates the People. My hatred of you is the only thing that gets me out of bed in the morning, and most mornings, I do not get out of bed. The mornings when I do get out of bed, it's because of my hatred of you lot. Sometimes I lie there, and think "I could die here, and it would be a good thing." And then I think of you lot, and I get out of bed, so that when Death finds me, I can say "Man, I hate those guys!" and I'm still fully dressed and, quite possibly, even shaved. I never married. I have no children. But every night, when I eventually pass out, I think: Man, I hate those guys. What we wanted was: chain lightening What we wanted was: 8 miles high What we wanted was: free fall & our turn to fly What we wanted was: more fireworks Everlasting 4th of July What we wanted was: more stars in a bluer sky All we wanted was something worth it Worth the labour, worth the wait Then they take you up to the mountain And you see too late In the middle of a good time Truth gave me her icy kiss Look around, you must be joking All that way, all that way for this What we wanted was: consolation The hand of strangers, help for pain What we wanted was: to be sure no friends were lost in vain What we wanted was: aggravation A good cause, a bigger row What we wanted was: the whole plantation now, Now, NOW! All we wanted was something worth it Worth the labour, worth the wait Let me take you up to the mountain And you see too late In the middle of a good time Truth gave me her icy kiss Look around, you must be joking All that way, all that way for this What we wanted was: rhyme and reason What we wanted was: another way What we get is: a tinpot heaven, and we're too drunk to pray What we got is the old machinery Grinding on in the same old way What we need is the sweet republic -Roll on, Independence Day In the middle of a good time Truth gave me her icy kiss Look around, you must be joking All that way, all that way for this In the middle of a good time Truth gave me her icy kiss Look around, you must be joking All that way, all that way for this Look around, we came all that way, all that way for this... All That Way For This -Oyster Band