Seanachai

That's Mister Neo-Imperialist Wanker to you, me lad! It'll be along. Momentarily.

Christ, it's amazing what foreigners will fight over. I guess it's because their own lives are so dreary! Not like the Finns, wondering when their control of the cell-phone market will catapult them into 'being almost slightly relevant' again. Nor like the pronouncements of some halfwit like Becket, who seems to think that any post he makes without wetting himself entitles him to the status of someone 'who's not as fecking stupid as he appears'. While I admire the free-spirited nature of the exchanges here in the 'Waffler' thread, existing without rules or hindrance, nor the direction of Justicar, or the review of quasi-mythological figures characterized only as 'The Olde One's', I can't help but notice that most of you lot are so fecking stupid that being abused by members of the 'Peng Challenge Thread' must seem like 'a dream come true' in your path to sentience. Seriously, I've challenged what passes for the 'my shoes aren't wet with my own urine' leaders of your thread, and I have, so far, been very disappointed. You lot need to step onto less soggy territory...

You liked Phil Collins? Why don't you just take off your bloody underwear and wear it on your head like a hat? At least then honest people going to work would recognize you for what you are...

Only that you’ve shot my fecking cilice belt! I expect either a new one OR a damn good thrashing soon! </font>

Where the hell are all you Goodalers? You lot are weak...weak as water!

Forgot my six-string razor - hit the sky Half way to memphis ’fore I realised Well I rang the information - my axe was cold They said she rides the train to oreoles Now it’s a mighty long way down the dusty trail And the sun burns hot on the cold steel rails ’n I look like a bum ’n I crawl like a snail All the way from memphis Well I got to oreoles y’know - it took a month And there was my guitar, electric junk. Some spade said rock’n’rollers, you’re all the same. Man that’s your instrument. I felt so ashamed. Now it’s a mighty long way down rock’n’roll Through the bradford cities and the oreoles ’n you look like a star but you’re still on the dole All the way from memphis Yeah it’s a mighty long way down rock’n’roll From the liverpool docks to the hollywood bowl ’n you climb up the mountains ’n you fall down the holes All the way from memphis Yeah it’s a mighty long way down rock’n’roll As your name gets hot so your heart grows cold ’n you gotta stay young man, you can never be old All the way from memphis Yeah it’s a mighty long way down rock’n’roll Through the bradford cities and the oreoles ’n you look like a star but you’re really out on parole! All the way from memphis -Mott the Hoople

You're like a bunch of Southern Froggies! Too bloody lazy to send a setup! Okay, I'll look to Satan for this one. He hates me, you know. On the other hand, I've slept on his fecking floor, after drinking his damn booze. What he feels about you Aussie buggers isn't worth repeating to any creature that doesn't express itself solely in terms of curses and scatology. Look for a setup soon, You Left Wing, Aussie Horror, Commonwealth bugger!

Gods! You are such an idiot!

Hey, speaking from an Australian point of view, sometimes I just don't find it funny. I get drunk and tired, I find another thread bagging Australians and yes, I posted like a wanker.</font>

'Struth! That's some weird ****e! I was just after reading a thread that suggested that me and Michael Emrys were the same person! Ha! That would be a bit of a lookout, eh? That me and Emrys could both post so long, and endlessly, and often so eruditely in different ways, and turn out to be not one satirical, well-spoken, humorous and knowledgeable, if somewhat short and stout, individual, and also another older, crustier, ironical, smiling gibbering groggish sort of guy? Eh? End of story!

I have a better idea. Why not just shove Boo out the door and let nature take its course. Saves on the mopping that way, and who knows, maybe the cacti will like that kind of stuff. Michael </font>

How do we know that? Every time any of us come over, you tell us 'she's working'. Bet she's buried in the basement. Berli and I both noticed how you didn't show us the basement. Believe me, in most homes, the basement is the first place they take us. What have you told your kids? That she ran off with the postman, and that they're not allowed in the basement because the floor's unsafe due to moles?

'Bout bloody time. It's the paucity, the sheer bloody paucity of you Down Under pillocks coming forward to Challenge me on the Peng Challenge Thread that has forced me to take the extraordinary measure of starting up an entire thread just to flush you out. That, and the fact that I'm totally trashed, and no one understands the humour of being totally trashed and talking big more than you complete Commonwealth wankers.

Silence! It's for me, the wounded and horrified party, to receive a setup from you, you horrible Kiwi monster!

I'm sorry, but things are a bit stale, lately. Gods, I hate Australia. From their hopeless, Southern Pommie accents, and their endless 'I've got a beer buried in the dunny, see if I don't' attitude, they're the most despicable people on the planet. The only thing worse than your average Australian is those sub-human New Zealanders. God's laugh, what a bunch of tossers! Oh, but then when I consider the absolute fecking horrors that the Commonwealth Mafia have visited on this fine website, with their endless whimpering to be considered as 'real soldiers', whose fathers and grandfathers 'somehow muddled through to victory' in the various World Wars... Well, I can tell you... If only they'd just shut up, and send us Americans a big bouquet of flowers for having Saved Their Arses from the horror of UberGermanification... So, I'm extending an Open Invitation to the horrible, pestulant Commonwealth scum that ponce about this website, to play a game... How do you fecking CW types live with yourselves?! [ March 26, 2005, 12:50 AM: Message edited by: Seanachai ]

The Jack of Diamonds slipped between two tens He said, "Hide me, boys, till the season ends. I've been sharecropping for the Ace, King, Queen and toward the end the game turned mean. The one game in town and I'm bound to lose And I just can't shake these gambler's blues Miss Downtown got her hair all wet She got caught by the storm Now she's so upset She dries herself by the kitchen sink as she quietly counts up everyone's drinks And she can't control and she can't refuse This one last shelter from the gambler's blues Ah, the gambler's blues coming round the curve Leave you with nothing but your broken nerve You listen to the fire as you shovel in the coal Stick you head out the window See the drive wheels roll St. Louis knows that he can't survive with a broken horn and a Rico 5 Still he walks this bar with his head held high And he honks and hollers till the well runs dry And the Jack of Diamonds had to give him the news There ain't now good notes in the gambler's blues Then smoke fills the room cause the wood's too green That's what you get when you buy from the Ace, King, Queen And there's not much light There's not much heat But you learn to like how it smells so sweet And when you count your change here you count by twos But you'll never buy off these gambler's blues Ah, the gambler's blues coming round the curve Leave you with nothing but your broken nerve You listen to the fire as you shovel in the coal Stick you head out the window See the drive wheels roll Jack of Diamonds jumps out from the Tens He says we'll never know how this story ends But you can tell old Bill when he comes home That the Ace, King, Queen took Miss Downtown home And left him with nothing but her old tattoos and a road map of these gambler's blues Gambler's Blues -Bill Morrissey [ March 26, 2005, 12:05 AM: Message edited by: Seanachai ]

You can always skip the songs. You will be a smaller man for having done so, but you may always skip the songs. But you skip the poetry at the risk of your immortal soul. And, frankly, lad, your immortal soul isn't all it could be. It's looking a bit grimy around the edges. A bit tattered. A bit worn. Poetry rejuvenates the soul, as Song rejuvenates the heart. But you can give them both a miss, if you wish. After all, there should be something lying in the lowest possible point of human interaction to soak up the urine.

It's tomorrow. What do you want, you bastard? I WILL, by all the gods, redeem you. This may be my greatest work. One day, Dalem, I may make you...human.

Wise fool, who does not fear to say too much, but stupid bastard, who never says enough...

Wheres MY welcome back OGSF you lily-livered faux-Scotsman. </font>

Looking in my picture book You know, I thought she was Mary, Queen of Scots Seemin' very real to me Just goes to show how wrong you can be. I'm going to stop, wasting my time. Anyone else, would have broken both of her arms. Sad song Sad song. -Lou Reed Bloody women! They'll rule us all in the end, you know, if we once turn our faces away from psychotic violence, addiction, and outright stupidity. Fortunately, I know you lot of complete and utter tossers to be made of sterner stuff. So I can still address you all as one complete gibbering idjit to a whole lot of complete gibbering idjits who are, in fact, so completely gibbering and idiotic that the stupidest thing I've ever said passes as the Wisdom of the Ages amongst you lot of complete and utter tossers, who can't even gibber in a way that doesn't make you look fecking stupid. So, we stand here, mano a mano. I always figured I could put on steel toed boots and kick the souls out of most of you buggers without breaking a sweat. That is, until you began posting...poetry. stifles a silent sob During these last few pages, where you've all been posting poetry... Well, let me just say...I've never been more proud of you all. Even Nidan, although, posting lame arsed song lyrics by a complete Unter-feminine-hygiene-product like Natalie Merchant is like bragging about the fact that you were really sensitive to the needs of your last girlfriend who was a stripper who used abortion as the only reliable form of birth-control, and who got teary-eyed over the fact that on her daughter's birthday, she didn't do crack at all... Can't fecking stand Natalie Merchant.

No, that's Condoleeza Rice.

You know, for a moment I mis-read the stream of gibberish, and I thought your reply was in regards to Emma's posting of 'The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock'. And I thought: Oh, Nidan is so going to Hell. But then I realized that you were responding about an earlier post of your own, where you did, in fact, post the lyrics of a song by Natalie Merchant. And then I shrugged. You're still going to Hell. Best place for you, if you listen to Natalie Merchant.

Och, where's me wee happy bunny? Ah'm feelin' affectionate! And here's a wee poem: Song of the Broken Giraffe I have heard the song of the broken giraffe, and sung it... The frozen sun has browned me to a rumor and slanted my navel. I have consorted with vulgar crocodiles on banks of lewd rivers. Yes, it is true, God has become mad, from centuries of frustration. When I think of all the girls I never made love to, I am shocked. Every time they elect me President, I hide in the bathroom. When you come, bring me a tourniquet for our wounded moon. In an emergency, I can rearrange your beautiful wreckage With broken giraffe demolitions and lovely colorless explosions. Come, you sexy Ferris wheel, ignore my illustrated bathing suit. Don't laugh at my ignorance, I may be a great bullfighter, òle! I wanted to compose a great mass, but I couldn't kneel properly. Yes, they did tempt me with airplanes, but I wouldn't bite, no sir-ee. Unable to avoid hospitals, I still refused to become a doctor. They continued to throw reason, but I failed in the clutch again. It's true, I no longer use my family as a frame of reference. The clothing they gave me was smart but no good for train wrecks. I continued to love despite all the traffic-light difficulties. In most cases, a sane hermit will beat a good big man. We waited in vain for the forest fire, but the bus was late. All night we baked the government into a big mud pie. Not one century passed without Shakespeare calling us dirty names. With all those syllables, we couldn't write a cheerful death notice. The man said we could have a birthday party if we surrendered. Their soldiers refused o wear evening gowns on guard duty. Those men in the basement are former breakfast-food salesmen. We had a choice of fantasies, but naturally we were greedy. If they leave me alone, I will become a fallen-leaf tycoon. Maybe Peter Rabbit will forgive us our trespasses; one never knows. At the moment of truth we were dancing a minuet and missed out. After the nuns went home, the Pope threw a big masquerade ball. When the hemlock turned rancid, I returned the cup at once, yes sir-ee. Hurry, the barometer's falling; bring a storm before it's too late. We shall reserve evenings for murder or television, whichever is convenient. Yes, beyond a shadow of a doubt, Rumpelstiltskin was emotionally disturbed. -Bob Kaufman

Here in Minnesota, wealth is judged in terms of boats. A man who can adorn his woman with a fine boat is much respected in the community. In fact, a recent offer made for the Minnesota Vikings had to be 'translated' into dollars for the newspapers, as the original offer was in terms of 'thousands of boats'...