Hamstersss

English!! Do, you, speak, it?!?! Geh! Out, out of my house, foul pest!! Out of my family's manor and back, into the woods and darkness that spawned you, foul filth. Begone, lest your sticky (Spelled with a 'c', like your GED average!) corpse be used to mark this place off-limits to your ilk. And, no, the University of San Francisco is no beautician's college (That would be the University of Sun Frond's, Co.) nor is it a diploma mill (Those would be the Un1versity of San Francisco, the University of S4n Fr4ncisco and the University of San Francisco in Bogota). Rather, it is a private school that provides a beautiful campus, beautiful women and, well, education every once in a while. And it's infested with Jesuits. All over. Like mosquitos in the jungle. Or lice in Croda's nether regions.

Dalem: 11,901 posts Lars: 10,220 posts Boo frickin' Radley: 6,139 posts Wise old indian once said to me, in regard to my first love, "She's talks a lot, but says nothing."

Stikky... What? Geh. Geh, geh, geh. Why is it that the longer the Cesspool exists, the more it becomes the drainage ditch of the Internet? Why can't it age, like fine wine, or Croda. Why does it attract things like this, I ask you? What are you? How did you get to be this way? Why hasn't someone digested you, yet? Are you indigestible? If you fell down in a forest and nobody was there, would anyone be there? Have you, or will you ever, perform a composite miracle involving virgins, surgeons and pined Sol? Oh, Hiram, you still live. Excuse me for not dancing. One day, though, you will realize how small you are and on that day you'll be able to pass through the eye of a needle. Until then, I recommend riding a camel--sidesaddle--right on through the sunset. And Lars. I vaguely remember watching you suck at ol' Josef's teat, so long ago. Look at how big and crooked you've grown, and with nary a snaggletooth to remind us of your carrion past. Makes me sniffle.

Finally, Steve, you've come around to 1:1 squad representation*. Maybe after CMx2 comes out I'll be able to google my name and not see that four-year old argument. For my own two cents, I found CMBO's original appeal to be the organic struggle with your own troops. You weren't ordering robot soldiers into battle, you were trying to martial men with guns and force them to shoot at other men with guns. Sometimes they missed, sometimes they chickened out and, occasionally, they performed some really heroic activities. War is a social activity and resembles other social activities. The wargames I'd played before, though good, didn't feel so human. To that end, I think if CMx2 modelled AI above as well as below, it would see most of its value on the social level. I would love to have played a single company in a battallion-sized assault on a city, all on the same map. To get the opportunity to curse or praise not just my soldiers or my enemies but also my superiors and my fellow commanders; that would add another element of social realism to the game. *I'm a student of Peng, I don't use smilies, but that was a funny.

God, I hate Dalem. I mean, really, that sonofabitch never did send me my fine-flavored, pickled pomegranite potash. Yeah. So for the last three years I've been struggling, struggling I tell you, at the University of San Francisco, a fine Jesuit institution with a 65:35 female to male ratio and, as of the May(ish), I'll be graduating. It's amazing. Truly. I'll be all smart and wise--you'll never recognize me. And in those three years I learned three CM-related thingies: 1) CM doesn't play well on a laptop. Or, at least, CM doesn't play well on my laptop. 2) You can't keep up with the old Pool if you can't play CM regularly. Otherwise, you're just a pontificatatron, which blows. 3) I loves the ladies. Okay, so I only had two things. No, wait, I remember: 3) I misses the Pool, my precious. Anyway, my point is thus: As I look forward to my post-graduate existence and my pursuit of a PhD (Oh yes, one day I shall be Dr. Meeks, how does that strike you fuzzy-mommies?), I also look forward to finally breaking down and purchasing a new laptop and then, returning home. It's still a couple months away, I know--tough ****. Hell, there are only about three people here who even know who I am. But I will return and the foundations of the Earth will shake when I do.0 Oh yeah, and if you're interested, I've been working on an open-source gaming project known as XConq for the last three or four years. It's pretty cool, plus it's 2D, which works on my archaic laptop. Come over and smear feces, if you like. I have been, and will always be, your most humble and loyal servent, EM

Well, you already can play CMAK on an Xbox, just not like you think... http://www.xbox-linux.org/ http://www.transgaming.com/showthread.php?msg=39302&forum=1152&thread=39012

Oh, happily shall I spit upon thine corpse, Noba. But first, I have to figure out these weird little tanks with two guns named after esoteric, dead Americans. And them wops.

Ahem. I now own CMAK. I say about a week, then I start killing each of you bastards and your pixelated murder monkeys.

[sounds of crickets screaming as they're spiked by the thousands as symbols of defiance to the power of the infidels]

Damn his eyes, ee's captured me ship and run through me men. Aye, that Berli's a fine admiral, but ee'll larn the error a runnin' morons fer crew. Smythe! Keep 'er quiet, and keep rowin', so that I may continue me dastardly monologue! Arr, there's no way they can catch us now, we'll be on Cess Island, in the impenetrable citadel what sits at the center of a jungle full of man-eating savages, themselves surrounded by a swamp populated by killer, flying penguins, thems patrolled by King Kong's older sister and the whole lot always under the watchful eye of the giant, angry, tesselated Earthworm o' Dooooom... Aye, we'll be there long before Berli finds out that the "queen" he done rescued was really just... Dum dum duuuuum!!! ONE OF THE MORMON WIVES!!!! Aye, Berli, ye may 'ave bested me in sail and battle and pure evilness, but now ye've learned that I'm like an evil boy scout--no Dalem, not that kind of boy scout, and there's nothing evil about them, that's quite insensative of you--always prepared!!! Arrr, if only I could be there when she's presented to the admiral 'isself. Arrrrrrrrr

It sure as hell better have just been a nap! I'll not be a party to a premature deflowering, you earless knave!

Ye're on page nine, lassie, and cloud nine, and a psilocybin-ecstacy-lude-pop rock-acid trip, by all appearances, as well. Arrrrr, the limitless sea be gettin' to ya, as is the heat and yer own upcomin' nuptials. Arrrrrrrr

Avast, that boot neck admiral has gained on us, but how! We're scuppered, we is! Smythe! Throw that damned caulker over the side and cut loose the stores! Aye, even the midgets, small good they'll do us if'n we're overran by that swab and his fleet! At least this mess o' midgets, rum, ivory and deadly explosives outta put off that ugly whale what's been followin' us fer the last fortnight! And fer good measure fire off some of that black market manure at its ugly stalk the next time ya sees it! Cut the anchors! Throw out the jolly fat men every unessential thing, sniff, even me special friend. No, not the queen, ya boob, and not hers, neither! But everything else, lest we all be fitted to a dead man's chest before the night is up!

Death can't stop twoo wuv! Course, I'm not in wuv, er, love, but neither is me mate, ee's just me willing dupe, er, dupe, um, dupe, uh, heroic warrior. Me, I can't be killed, ask Berli. Even with the Budweiser racing boat (It's an endurance raise, anyway, ya silly sot, now you'll have to be towed to Cess Island by a bleemin' trireme). Blimey, a whole wedding and not a thought given to it till now. Well, we know the bride ain't wearing white, but the bigger problem's gonna be getting Dalem to wear some pants. Keep drinking, lad!!!

Alas, poor desperate, jealous one, if only yours was the boustierre, er, boustier, er, boustiaye, um, bosom that could launch a thousand ships... Aye, Smythe, we've passed, yes, Dalem, you're Smythe, didn't you get it? Well who else would I have been talking to all this time? Oh, lord, man, Bauhaus is over in the Waffle thread! Wha??? Elvis? Like I'm going to have a long-running dialog directed toward a man with a one word vocabulary? No, there's no 'Smythe' registered user, tis a monikor, for you! A monikor! A nomme de guerre. A nickname. Yeeesss. For you. Yes. Now, as I was saying, Smythe, we've passed the... Because Captain Hook's first mate was Smythe. No, that's just how you pronounce it. Well, because if I wrote Smeeee, it'd look dumb, and I'd forget the number of 'e's that I wrote and have to look it up each time. Okay? You sure? So I can continue? No, because, if you still don't get it, I suppose I could draw up some charts. No, not really. I'm gonna keep going now, a'right? Aye, passing the Straits of Wild-Eyed Boredom was perilous. We nearly veered into Focker's limitless chasm of banality when the Queen ran her laundry out on the mizzenmast. Arr, can't blame the men, though, seeing as she ran all her laundry out and left naught but her birthday suit. Not a mangy seadog on the deck could tell how that trollop keeps those tan lines in such fine shape given the conditions... But we'd overcorrected, and were ready to be annihilated by the 16" coastal guns of the Grogs of Dooooom. Thank the Gnome they'd got to arguing about the penetration value of 16" anti-armor on an 18th century sailing vessel or we'd never had survived... Ah, Smythe, ye've never been to Cess Island, such an impenetrable fortress has never been conceived, except in the most twisted minds of the ones what built it, the mad Croda. They'll never catch us before we get there and to breach the walls would require both arms and cunning that not even the suddenly urbane and quite humorous (Not humerus, stick to the sexual innuendo, let's not bring orthopedics into it. Yes, I know surgery's supposed to be the new porn, that's not the point) Justicar could even manage. We'll be safe and, me dear Dalem, once I can find a priest (Of the Gnome, preferably, too bad it's such a piddling religion) to marry ya to the beautiful Queen, then my plot will have succeeded! Arrrrrrrrrr

Look there, Smythe, that sorry excuse for a cannon-swaddler thinks he's boarding my Jack-ass barque (A real type of ship, and with a name like that, how could I resist?). Har, har, har, wait till he finds out he's tangled up ol' Admiral Berli's flagship and he's now proceeding to liberate the Dark One's own evil parrot. Look at that, ee's cut off the head of Berli's lucky marmot, all the while thinking it to be me own scurvyness. Arrr, the sea's got no place fer a man who can't tell a marmot from a hamster! Well, yes, Dalem, 'ee is far astern, that's why I've used me spyglass to watch the action. Aye, just like the one yer usin', except ye've got it turned around, and it looks as if ye've lacquered both ends. Aye, I'm sure her royal majesty would like a lacquered spyglass, given that she's sufferin' from a damned sight o' the madness, likely better off if ya stop feastin' her on them psychedelic frogs that one-armed Amy gave ye back at San Peng de la Sonrisa Santa. Aye, she sure did like ya in that corset, even with all yer blubberin'. I must confess, Smythe, I'm worried. Aye, Shaw's post was witty, humorous in intent and execution, and its a bad sign. I've been rubbin' my bracelet of the Church of the Gnome like Leeo on Berli's parrot. But it's not that. To get to Cess Island, we'll have to pass through the Straits of Wild-Eyed Boredom! On one side is the monstrosity known as Gaylord Focker, who if we sail too close to we shall never again see another day of scuppers and roses. But just as terrible a fate lays on the other, where JasonC, Dorosh, Germanboy and a dozen other of the groggiest grogs ever to have slogged the board await, ready to snatch the unwitting sailor and lecture him on the misrepresentation of the 1941 Canadian canteen within CM and its obvious effects on the rightward slant of the Lee-Enfield two-step pocketknife. Batten down the hatches, Smythe, and tell the queen to put her clothes back on, we don't need any more of those kind of distractions, it'll take all my wits, and your one wit as well, to get through there alive! Arrrrrrrrrr [ January 28, 2004, 03:38 PM: Message edited by: Elijah Meeks ]

Har, har, har. Ye not only don't 'ave a pair, me laddo, ye wouldn't even know a pair if'n Hickock himself kicked ya in yers. Get ye to a cheery waffle, and bother us no more. Arrrr

Ya bilge, I've got two words for ya, myself... Fancy Made-Up Jealous Lawyer Rambling. Ta think ye impugn my honor, fer the crusades I've a been, which have taken me away from me beautiful Cess, me beautiful, cozy Pool. Yes, I've left and come and left again, because I had to, sirrah. Aye, I'm a buccaneer, a scoundrel, a liar, a cheat and, let's just be clear, crazy, but ye need me, alls of ya! Yea, all vices are virtue in war and to keep our Mutha Beautiful Thread saaaafe, I've had to sacrifice those luxuries ye call mental stability and good hygiene. Ya see, Mr. Shaw, we live in a world that has walls, and them walls need to be guarded by rapscallions with sabres, dynamite, wits and spoons. Who's gonna do it? Ye? Ye, 'justicar' Joe Shaw? Aye, me own responsibility be greater than ye can possibly fathom. Ye weep for yer precious queenie, and ye curse ol' Mad Meeks. Ye have that luxury. Ye have the luxury of not knowing what I know -- that me leaving the pool, while tragic--damned, terribly tragic--probably saved the Pool; and me existence, while grotesque and incomprehensible to ye, saves the Pool. Ye don't want the truth because deep down in places ye don't talk about at the weekly Pool Pinochle game, ye want me leavin' and showin' up again ta steals yer womenfolk -- ye needs me ta do it. Arrrrrrrr

Har, har, har, I can see ye've been sampling that sorry, earless seadog's cookin', me sweet, fine Emma. Prob'ly shoulda warned ya early that those mushrooms he uses so much ain't yer everyday sort... Aye, and ye wouldn't like to know how he warmed them towels, neither. The scallywag's got talents, but ain't none of 'em fit fer the eyes o' children. Still, even I'm forced to admit that the more baubles and jewelry I wear, the more teeth I replace with precious metals, the more yards of flashy clothe I tie to my head, the more devastatin' I look. Smythe, before we reach Cess Island, with its deadly traps and hideous wildlife, let us stop at San Peng de la Sonrisa Santa and see how the whores and scum like our new outfits! Arrrr, ye can even wear one of her majesty's corsets, I'm sure ol' One-Armed Amy'll give ya a great roll if ya show up with'n a thirteen-inch waist! Arrrrrrrrr Arrrrrrr

Arr, and that's why, along with me St. Christopher's medal, me toenail's of the Buddha, me Zoroastrian fan belt, me Shinto bells, me Unitarian bingo card and me Norse runes, I also keep one of them Pagan Church o' the Gnome charm bracelets on me at all times, ye never can tell. Arrrrr, well, nice chatting with ye lads, but I've got to go scum up the deck so as yer royal trollopness got something to do after her warm beer, soggy corn and frozen turtle neck lunch. Har har har, methinks now that Smythe is here, she's starting to warm up to pirate horse-brutality, er, hospitality. Arrrrrrrrr

Now don't get all ruffled, ol' Dalem, me lad, before you go loony-bonkers and try to chew me fingers off or sell me to the Orientals, keep in mind the followin' points: 1) You ain't got no job, this is a job. Ain't any pay, course, 'cept fer booty, but ain't a commission-based system more honest and compellin'? 2) Ya gets ta console the wee Queenie whenever she's a weepin' or lamentin' or considerin' throwing her corsetted little self over the side to shack up with ol' Davey Jones. More than 2) Yer the one what gets to dole out the punishment to said formerly royal of all delicates whenever she gets a little too mad from sunstroke and reminiscing about her old position. Also more than 2) It's me or it's Boo, Lars, Seanachai... I'm a loon, aye, but I'm a loon who don't go talking to ya all that much, an' a self-starter like you oughtta appreciate that kind a latitude. Arrrrrrrrr Now speaking a' latitude (And reminding me jolly Olde Ones in case they've forgotten, or maybe Rune, if ee's in the mood), make way for Cess Island!!!!!!

Not quite, me laddo, but 'ee is me faithful Smythe. 'ee don't quite know it, course, that's why I'm always slapping 'im with a bucket o' chum. I'm glad ee's finally cut down our Queenship, it's bound time she gets to carving me a new Mahjong set from these here bleached bones o' me enemies. AaaaaaAAAAaaaaRRRrrrr

It's nice to finally have a woman's touch on board me fine ship. Now that she's done with the laundry and the sewing, the cookin', the scarpin', wenchin' and animal husbandry, the limin', the peelin', the bilge-pumpin', the reamin', the seamin', leamin' and peamin', cleaned the fospots, the hardswaggle, the buntline, the braces, shined the futtocks, the shot, shell and all me buckles, earrings, necklaces, rings, pinkie rings, bracelets, armlets, jeweled teeth, jeweled teets and roast beef, I'm gonna tie her to the fore and assume that the gods'll go easy on a ship with a queen as a figurehead. Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr

Xbox: $150 Linux for your Xbox: Free* Getting a cheap gaming rig subsidized by the wealthiest person on Earth: Priceless *http://xbox-linux.sourceforge.net/

Dalem, can I recommend going to school and pursuing some useless degrees. It's wonderful fun!