Hamstersss

Ey, lads, since you's can't satisfy 'er, I'm taking her queenship to her beloved high seas. It's quite romantic, I tells ya, she'll be able to scrubs me galleys, wash me many pairs a' tights, grease the yardarm (Eh, Dalem, see, I can be just as bloody sleazy as I wants, we've crossed into international waters, which means sleaze, gamblin' and monkey knife fights) and perform the other, usual, wenching duties. Ya ha! ARRRRRRRR

Jesus, God and a shiver of timbers, I'm gone for a day and Peng shows up, the whole lot of ya steal my schtick and all I'm left with is an Xbox running a copy of Bill's-Own Microsoft Viking, as I download every synth-pop sea shanty ever cursedly produced. You lot are prolific, but where you lubbers spew quantity, this privateer prefers quality. Arrrrrrrr No 'g', no 'h', no punctuation, no damned punctuality, neither. Wait till I get my hands on yer women...

So I was about to vomit copiously but my knotted and festering stomach is unsure whether the idea of Dalem scratching any itches (I will not capitalize an itch, that's just lewd) or simply being Ren-Faired out is the worse. Someone needs to get that queen a decent set of metal panties, or at least an elephantine dose of valium. Arrrrrrrrrrr

Now I'm a little embarrassed, it's, uh, taking a little longer than I thought to find the little guy. Um, I assure you, this has never happened before. No, no, it's not you, it's, um, the Internet.

Yep, only one thing... (You know, at this rate, I'll catch up with ol' Dorosh in no time)

Oh, Johnny Depp has now appeared in the MBT... You know, there's only one thing more dashing, more rakish...

You know, Seanachai, it wasn't any of that, heck, it wasn't even the dashing rogue I'd be if I came back (All you, Emma, dear, the tights, the arrrr, I owe it all to you and for that, you'll always have a place in my heart, even after I chop you to little bits and feet you to the crabs). No, it just seemed like the right time to return.

Aye, that it does laddie! Its the color of... a BRICK!! </font>

Tattoo and the Manatee-Scene 17 Tattoo: There is something amiss, if the Soviet Union has collapsed then this satellite transmission shouldn't be occuring. Manatee: You're right, old friend, if, the Soviet Union has collapsed. Tattoo: You don't mean? Manatee: I do, you remember the pin that Uzi-weilding hooker on the top of that cellular tower was wearing on her torn jeanskirt? Tattoo: Of course, but I thought it was just a fashion statement. Manatee: It's the same as the one I just found on that Siberian nuclear chemist's bathrobe. Better warm up the Commanche, we need to get to NORAD in thirty-six minutes or the good old U.S. of A is about to suffer a surprise attack that'll make Pearl Harbor look like a Calvin and Hobbes summer snowball. Enter some Dufus, who speaks just as Tattoo and Manatee are leaving. Becket: Well, I'm back. End of scene Arrrrrr.

You know, it's sick of me to even think this, but ever since Dalem's little people's war with wherever in the General Forum--it makes me want to set a team of Mormons to find out if we were seperated at birth, or at least part of the same experiment... Stop looking at me like that! Arrrrrrrr! Little People's War. You know, like when the hobbits invaded Munchkinland with the help of the Gnomes. Oh, jeez, I'm sorry Seanachai, I didn't know it was that Little People's War when your parents were put to the chainsaw. Um, yeah, still kinda funny, though, right? ARRRRRRRRRR! [ January 23, 2004, 01:01 AM: Message edited by: Elijah Meeks ]

Allow? ALLOW?! Oh no, my little socks-and-vinegar, there'll be no allowing here. You forgets your place, Shaw, you're one of the yes'ems and I'm of the type that orders your type to, uh, type, or whatever else suits my fancy (Right, Dalem, none of that kind of fancy-suiting, I mean, suiting of fancy, you know, fancy-suiting is actually quite nice, we should all dress up a little more, look at this outfit, I'm so swashbuckling I feel like I could take on the entire Empire myself). You'll not get the better of me, Shaw, I was just a figurehead back then, a dupe at the whimsy of the Olde Ones, but now I'm cut loose, with nothing to lose and an almost-forgotten taste of power on my woman-ravaging lips (Well, all right, Dalem, that was, I admit, sleazy, but, I was in the moment, you know how it gets, all enraged and powerhungry, you know what I mean, hell man, as a glorious leader, you've been there, right?) and I'm back for blood, and applesauce. And Boo, geh, why even respond, you knickerbockered, sloppy-mouthed, little nothin'. I'll take you apart and put you back together again before you can even say, "Mommy make the bad man stop hurting me!" I'll make a transmission belt outta your gizzard. Why would I want to fit in to this lace and curtains queendom (No, Emma, it's a fine lace, beautiful Venezualan Romantic, right? But, well, I'm sure you understand) Rotten little frybrains like yourself only learn one way, the hard way, and you're lucky, cuz that's the only way I know how to teach respect. And calculus, because frankly today's university students aren't the best self-starters and, well, you have to skin a few math nerds to keep the department shipshape. Arrrrrrrrr!

I get it now. This is like some kind of discount, knock-off Cesspool. Like Hello Cat clocks that look mysteriously like a Japanese icon of a similar name, right? So are all you guys made in Taiwan, or is it just a theme that you adopt because your neurons are wound a little loose? But why, pray tell, are there Poolers in here? When did it start? What's the history of this mystery, I ask. And why on God's green earth haven't you guys started pairing up (No not like that, Bauhaus, oh, hey, there you are, you know Dalem's in the Pool doing the same act. Oh, that's why you've come over here... Have you tried to talk about it? Really? Ew. Sit down.) and fighting for honor, glory and cheesecake photos of the Queen, who shall die a thousand deaths if I have anything to say about it, what with her dethroning, dismounting, destabilizing and wearing white after Labor Day (Well, yes, I know it was white lingerie, and quite fetching, Emma, but certain fashion mores are unquestionable). Hunh? Who's in charge here, anyway? The manatee? The tattoo? Hmmm, The Tattoo and the Manatee, I see a promising Ludlum-esque espionage flick in the making... Ahem, arrrr. Edited for a slightly more manly, Arrrrrrr!

Oh God, and here I thought "Boo Radley" was simply a moniker, but no, it's actually the half-witted mockingbird killer himself. You imbecile, have you no clue what I meant with the rifle and native american metaphor? You moron, do you think there are Indians left to shoot? (To shoot, I said, you popsicle-brained, swallow-molesting, minor boil on an ugly girl) Let me draw you a map, in crayon, so you get it this time. I'm getting the game. I'm going to then use the game to kick your, no no no, I'm not going to kick the game, wait until I end my sentence, you lackwitted steeplejack, I'm going to use the game to kick your ass. No, no, stop cowering, Christ man, we're seperated by thousands of miles and how much could being beaten with a CD hurt, anyway, you festering, cowardly, insignificant piece of unispired prose. I'm going to install the game on my computer and then I'm, oh forget it, does anyone speak Moronic in these parts? Lars? Could you translate for... Oh Christ, turn around at least, so I don't have to see that vacant look on your face, like you're counting jelly beans or, oh stop slobbering! Damn you Emma, what have you done to this place? It's gotten so a guy has to wear leotards just to fit in with the retards. (I'm glad you like them, they're, uh, DKNY, you know, cost me a pretty penny but look at the way they accentuate the positive, if you get what I mean) And as for you, oh earless nemesis, the only reason I kept reading the General Forum (A habit I'm proud to say I've quit. Had to take up smoking anyway), I can't wait till my pommies or my Dago-Wops or my Krauts or whatever it is gets to play Find the Wompus with your gall bladder. Oh, it'll be nice to finally get back to slaughtering. Arrrrrrr, off to the stupid thread. Er, stupider thread. Um, less intelligent. No, not that one, the one with all those damned stupid smilies. Edited for one more, Arrrrrrrrr!

Oh, it's not that easy, lass. It's not just kerplow, plop, boom, let's do 2000 pts with random weather, there has to be a scenario made. And, er, it's bound time I got a copy of a more recent version than CMBO. Which means a good week of strutting, and mocking you, you who sheeted my bed with paisley, you little sicko. You who filled my piano with olive oil and now call it a bath. You who took the royal robes of office and shoved them into the communal urn of my ancestral line, thinking it to be a mere "chest" at the end of my bed. Oh no, and once I'm done annihilating the first red shirt you send at me, I'll tear through the rest like the archangel Michael's own rototiller (With side games with Berli and Dalem, of course, which I'll probably and likely lose, respectively, just because Berli's so damned good and Dalem out-crazy's even me). Arrrrrrr.

Aw, you named a code after me? That's the sweetest thing anyone's ever done. Do I get a certain color, too? I mean, I guess it'd be okay if there wasn't a certain color of flashing bulb, you know, and really intricate procedures. I guess.

If I had any idea who you are, I'd probably be a little peeved right now, as it is, I'm incensed, and I don't mean Nag Champa. That's the pisser, no CM, at this point I'd load up a game and wipe your sorry butt all over the Crimea or Anzio or the Sea of Tranquility or wherever the current version is set, but I can't and that's a damned shame. So maybe it's time I pull down that old Spencer rifle and start killing Injuns.

Oh my God, this place is just as bad as they say. I mean, do you really have to explain what a huge manatee is? It's 2004, man, everyone knows about the manatee. Seriously, raise a hand if you don't know what a manatee is. Yeah, that's what I thought. What're they gonna mistake it with, a saltwater platypus? What'll ya parenthesis next, the little-known and exotic woodpecker? Frickin' morons, I've seen better wit on the value menu at Carl's Jr.

Dethroned? DETHRONED?!?! When did this happen? (Links, I need links, goddammit!) Bloody well, it's for the best, really, you see I've always made the better usurper* than king. Have at ye, foul ice queen and your hoary (Sit down Bauha--wait, no, that's Dalem, wearing Bauhaus's socks, pinned to the scar tissue where his ears were cut off. That's not cool, that's not cool at all) consort! Come, my citizens, your benevolent and far more entertaining and sometime king has returned! Rally to me! Who will be the Petre to my Cromwell? The Ike to by Delano? The Tweedle-Dum, to my Tweedle-Dee? We shall storm the royal bedchamber!! (By the way, damned fine of you, Emma, for keeping the old portrait up, Lorak paintedt the thing with his tongue, took him eight weeks and he still can't taste anything but oregano, sorry I'm gonna have to pike ya {No, Dalem, her head, on a pike, quite literal, not a metaphor for anything, you've, well, you've got to calm down} as a symbol to anyone in the future who thinks that just because I only show up for thirty-three minutes a year somehow means I can be tossed out like yesterday's waffles) The Cess must flow!!! *Pronounced, please note, as the ultra-badass 'you-surper' and not the limp-wristed, hiram-metalsmithish 'uh-surper'.

Oh thank God. I've been sitting here, alone, for what seems like eons. I, well, I thought about following the princess but then I remembered that I'd all ready roasted the unicorn and served it up to, well, nevermind that, it's just, this place is kinda scary when nobody's here, I never realized, because, well, you remember, it was always a bustle. Gads, when did they drain it? I never realized how deep it was, and those pillars, makes ya think a Balrog's gonna jump out at any moment, or at least that they're gonna start storing old model starfighters for a final battle against--oh, listen to me babble, you know, it's nice to be back, surrounded by, um, people, that, I, always, hated. Well, still, nice to be back in the sanctuary, ya know. So tell me, what's happened? Who's the, hey--Dalem? Dalem?! Helllooooooo? ...helllooooooo e Cess Valve C This is the tertiary release valve for the Mutha Beautiful Thread, built during the first thread to maintain a constant flow of putrescence. It's been closed and painted pink, with a note reading, "Thank you, but we've remodeled, hope you like the decor, don't try anything." There's graffiti on the valve. read graffiti "Wankers"

I missed a crusade??? That, Berli, needs, viagra, to carry out? What the hell? When did the morons with the smilies become important enough to hate? I thought they just typed gobbledygook while listening to acoustic remixes of Erasure all the time. And Lorak left? Like, three minutes before I showed up? Bad form, sir. I'll have you know that, as a Raiders fan who grew up in the other Carolina, I commiserate, especially if it has to do with screwing Philadelphians. ****in' city hasn't done but naught since breaking that bell (Our bell, let me remind you, and as a citizen of these United States, I demand that it be repaired, and at a good metalsmith, like they've got up in New England, not some drunken, cheesesteak-sweating, parka-dowered, shovelhead named Hiram. You all, especially the sick one, could learn a thing or seven from good ol' American-style football, like when you don't give a rat-damn about either side, root against. Yeah, and when did YK2 become Queen? And how? And is she shacked up with Berli or is that just colorful innuendo? And when did Dalem flick the switch from asshole to bugnuts? And a billion other questions, that I seem to be asking, in an empty hall. ...empty hall. Pick up platinum bar ...pick up platinum bar

Trust me, ain't nothing wrong with your twitch. No, come on, Dalem, baby, that wasn't sleazy, that was, uh, grape. Yeah. So get with it people, I'm here for one of my thrice yearly visits (Or is it seasonal? {Not that, I know that's seasonal, I mean my visits}) so get me up to speed while I slog through Peng Thread CXLIII. Who's come, who's gone--now dammit, Dalem, I typed COME, you're jumping up like Bauhaus, that's not sleazy, it's just good English, baby. Back to slogging, as you see I made it as far as Emma's twitch before I was forced to respond. Bummer about the car Seanachai, nice to see ya got it back (I expect to find out more regarding its condition in future {for me, past for yous guys} messages).

Whoa, whoooa. Um, let's not ever post anything like that again, okay? Christ on a binge, gives me the jeeblies just thinking about it...

About time, too. Way I see it, whole damned lot a' ya shoulda been sent up. See, there it is again, strange mix a' reminiscence, wit, envy and rubbing alcohol, just tells ya, "Write something, Meeks, and for God's sake, stop thinking of yourself in the third person, bloody sheepshagging bastard, halfwit, no account, deer-tick of a man, so painfully retarded you can't even qualify for euthanasia." Oh yeah, it's mean. I miss it, and those running gags that got old and then young again, knocked over the unsuspecting and stole their wallets and spent it on wit, booze and object-ification. I miss being able to punch out a couple paragraphs of tripe, just for the chance to badmouth Stuka, just because it brought the kind of visceral pleasure one gets from breaking the fragile. And the roles, sometimes adopted, sometimes simply borne, excepting Hiram, who always reminded me of a rather pathetic guy I knew (Named "Jamie" which I thinkg kinda sounds like "Hiram") and that misplaced disgust bred contempt, which bedded down with its own mother and bore derision, whose forehead split open to reveal earth, from whom all the old gods were descended. Pretty motley crew the rest, the whole lot a bunch of fine bastards, Shaw and his damned wild-eyed passion for the illegible, Berli's mix of evil, kindness and more evil, he's like that evil uncle I never had, who was perfectly willing to let you play in his shed full of dynamite and power tools, happy, even, because he knew you'd really enjoy yourself and just might die. Never really knew Peng, 'cept in passing, seemed like a hopeful Bukowski with a sober streak, probably makes a lot of folks feel good about themselves, but I was always envious because of the whole smilie diatribe. Seanachai, hell, can't say anything about him, says it all himself, and more, and occasionally reminds us that underneath the congenital predisposition toward rhyming, which is an awful thing and should be surgically removed, is a good pair a' bile ducts... Anybody else miss Lorak?

Oh yeah, but you'll need an adapter. It's a clunky thing, which includes oversized, cat-in-the-hat hands to slap some sense in you, a vitriol dispenser that will need to be topped off with bile on an hourly basis and a can opener, which I haven't found a use for, but I'm sure will come in handy later. It'll also be on XM, because I my awfulness doth not tolerate interruptions to sell you Tide.