Buzzsaw

Rune, my Liege, how my heart leapt to read your words. I had feared that the voice of a flea such as myself could not reach so high! It is with great honor and humility that I undertake the task you have commanded. I remember Boo from my earlier forays into the Cesspool and am ashamed that I did not dispatch him then. Let this be a reminder to all – if left untended, even the smallest pimple may one day become a ripe, puss-filled boil, irksome to those of even the highest station. Worry yourself no more, my Liege. I am your weapon, and will fly forth and lance this foul fester! May his puss sink to the bottom of the Cesspool, and may he never again rise to stain the MBT with his gibbering, nonsensical posts. A properly formed challenge is forthcoming.

The ease with which Ponddumb has reestablished his (lowly) standing gives me hope! No doubt the requirements of someone who squired in House Dalem are far lower than those for one who hopes to regain his status in the noble House of Rune, but that lofty gain is now my sole worldly aim. Rune, my Liege, I long to bask in the glory of your grogginess once more. What penance is required for my long absence? No abasement is too low, if in first lowering myself, I know that I am on the path to redemption. I would polish Ye Olde Bucket, but I suspect that the intervening years have seen you switch to use of a bag. In other news, having been tricked into believing that CMBN and its demo were imminent, I have tried to satisfy my bloodlust with this Rise of Flight I keep hearing about. So far, the only blood has been my own -- splattered on the controls after my wingless plane has cratered into the French countryside. MrSpkr’s recent video of himself ( ), is a good approximation of my accuracy in that damn game.

I’d like to avoid getting any more specific than the request for a frilly skirt. I’d don’t want to know anything else about the grade school traumas that fuel Boo’s fantasies. (“Mean girls” at recess? Bad experience at one of his ballet auditions? -- See, it is just best to not go there.)

Well, I'll have to check the TOE, but I think I can arrange for something in a “skirt” to administer your beat down. I must say, I find the request a little odd, but I try to avoid being judgmental about other people’s proclivities.

Good Lord, there are some old turds in this pool! Looks like the semi-regular pumping isn’t getting the place totally cleaned out. Not to worry, once Battle for Normandy is released, I intend to come in and do a thorough cleaning. Nothing like a few HE rounds to clean a place up. Guess I’ll have to start at the top, where the noobs are floating around….

Rune and Joe Shaw- I might have an opportunity for a tour of an interesting armored vehicle museum. I tried to get emails to you (Rune, via Battlefront, Joe via email listed on that strange Cesspool page you have up). It's probably not of interest, but I wanted to throw the offer out there to any folks you might know who aren't complete lunatics. The chance to organize the tour is time sensitive (see the email), so I'd need to hear back from a few reliable folks by tomorrow evening. -Buzzsaw PS Realizing that you might have special filters for emails from long wayward piss-boys with whom you would not normally associate, you might need to check your spam folders.

Noticed this in the news and couldn't help thinking of you nuts: Smiley Turns 25: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/20829611/ Genuinely glad to see you guys are still going. Just haven't haven't had the time to keep up any more. (Quietly sodding off now)

Eating flounder on the shore of Lake Michigan is where your horrors really began. Maybe the whole phone call was a hallucination brought on by bad fish? California restaurants are brimming with fresh, wild salmon. Juicy, fat beasties. Does gazing over the open water of Lake Michigan while noshing on flounder help you forget that you are stuck in the wasteland of middle America? Glad to see the same cast of crazies still here. You are best off ignoring me, as I will probably disappear again soon (thus fulfilling your most sincere desires).

And I see that Fair Emma has a link to Scotland the Brave in her sig now. I can't get it loud enough on my computer, and somehow it just isn't the same unless your eardrums are bleeding.

Feh! I have owed Lars are CMAK Demo setup for over a week, but somehow, I haven't gotten around to it. Too much left-over turkey to work on, but I'm almost done, so maybe this weekend. I'm sure he's got better things to do anyway.

Lars, I think we should play the African scenario rather than the Italian one. I have seen a lot of posts concerning the modeling of cover in vineyards, and I want to wait for a patch to come out that properly accounts for the brittleness factor of early season Chianti grapes before playing any Italian scenarios. So, if you still haven't seen anything of the Fruhlingswind scenario, I'll send you the setup. I think it is best that you attack, as my attacks usually amount to a painfully slow and birong advance, right up until time starts to run out, at which point I throw my infantry into carefuyl identified machine gun and Infantry gun emplacements. (Elvis can attest to this).

First, let us put an end to this ridiculous accusation that our fair Queen Emma has absconded with Nicolas Cage. How should could possibly prefer the company of that Cro-Magnon Coppola to our witty and urbane banter? If it weren’t for his family connections, he never would have been cast as anything other than a dazed, mute drug addict. There is a reason why he is so good at giving that vacant, “I just wet myself” stare into the camera: he isn’t acting. I keep hoping that he and Keanu Reeves will make a surfing movie together and that they will both be ground into crab food on some coral reef. The last real sighting of Queen Emma was on this thread. What was she even doing in this thread! Don’t we have Royal Readers whose sole job is to sample threads before the Queen reads them, ensuring that she is not poisoned by doggerel such as is posted by this Gaylord fellow? Someone has been derelict in their duties, and I suggest that the Inquisitor focus his interrogations in that direction.

So now he thinks he's the reincarnation of Homer, Milton or Joyce... typical bard delusions of grandeur. </font>

Listen, numbskull, I know that you are getting all of my emails, and they are simply getting overlooked as they are crowded by all the viagra adds, porn solicitations, and Eagle fanboy emails in your inbox. If each of my emails contained a file with a new name there would be a least a chance of sparking a little bit of intelligence -- a chance that you would realize you should acutally load and play the newly arrived file instead of sitting at your computer plucking nose hairs and wondering why you haven't heard from me in a few days.

He makes them wear shoes? </font>

Elvis, I am waiting on a file from you again. Somehow your whole anti file numbering scheme isn’t worth it when I keeping having to send emails with subjects like “This is the second time I have sent this file, wanker”, and “Maybe the third time is the charm, pillock”. Tiny Teapot, I had almost forgotten that MrSpkr sent me a nice scenario for us to play. If you are still interested, and have a good sense of humor, I’ll send you the setup.

Look, with all due respect to the Fair Queen, there is really no getting around the fact that Scotland is one ass-backwards country. Maybe instead of inventing games that require them to carry huge Freudian logs between their legs they should just stop wearing skirts. And lets take the Highland Bagpipe. First off, it is hardly a Scottish instrument, having its origins in the Middle East instead of Scotland. Most other cultures probably tried hard to forget the sound of this instrument and even the Arabs abandoned it long ago, but the Scots apparently preferred it the stones they banged together to make noise, and adopted it as their own. And, trying to stay true to the instruments roots, the Scots developed a truly god-awful style know as Piobaireachd, a sound that more closely resembles the bleating of a goat on a sacrificial alter than anything that could be called music. The bagpipe tunes that some tone-deaf people claim to enjoy are generally jigs, hornpipes, and marches, and owe more to English musical traditions than anything the Scots came up with. Sadly, this would even include “Scotland the Brave”. I guess you have to credit them with a least having the good sense to adopt ideas from other cultures. Otherwise they’d probably still be painting themselves blue and running around naked.

Its funny, you could stand mere inches away from a marching pipe band and listen without suffering at all, but put a single piper in a restaurant even 5ft away from your table then <big> ARGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH</BIG> BTW Kitty did you check under his kilt to see if he was a genuine Scot? </font>

Eeeeew!, ****adjusts eyepatch, and strains to see with damaged left eye***** please refrain from making eyeball and vitreous references, use something from the digestive system or brain housing group, will you please. </font>

Aces and 8’s, Aces and 8’s …. doubtless part of a secret lexicon used by members of a necrophilic oananism cult to recognize each other. I think you are on the wrong bulletin board, buddy. Or, if it’s just a poker reference, you should know that the only poker you’ll see around here is the red-hot one I’m heating up to jab into your eyeballs. (Ahh, how I love the smell of vitreous humor in the morning!) Think you can push me around just because you are now Serf to Rune, whereas I have been reduced to former Serf? Let’s wait a month and then you can tell me which of us is better off. A word to the wise: if he invites you to any Sneak Peaks, see me first – you’ll definitely be wanting that red hot poker in the eyes before you go.

Yeah, it's about as amusing as when the pommies start debating about their silly footy teams. Can we just agree that whichever service has the nervous looking goat as a mascot is at the bottom of the heap and move on? However, just so I don't feel completely left out, I would like everyone to properly honor me for my glorious service as a Naval ROTC stoolie. I lasted all of 1 month before washing-out. (It's really hard to feel like you are properly squandering your education when someone else is paying for it.)

I'm not sure who this Louie person is that eveyone is talking about, but he sounds French, so I'm all for giving him the boot. The rest of you are pillocks, especially Tiny Tadger. I hope your computer ends up in the dead letter office, so that I will never have the displeasure of playing you.

And now, the final chapter in The Adventures of Serf Buzzsaw in the Hermit Kingdom. Ohhhh, the cruel and unnatural things that the slave drivers made me do with their box of enchanted sand! How could an instrument of such joy in my homeland, a portal to both the Cesspool and countless hours of Combat Mission rapture, be twisted into such a wicked and tortuous device? In deference to the Ladies of the Pool, I will spare you the details of the unholy acts I was made to perform. Such delicate and sublime creatures should know nothing of the trials that mortal men must endure to provide for their every desire. Forsooth, should the Dames of the Pool learn the particulars of my debasement, I would be too ashamed to endure their gaze. Know that I protested vociferously, but that the fierce lash of the slave driver’s whip on my abdomen was more than I could endure. As I worked, I learned more and more about my captors, and I marveled at the reach of their awesome power. This confederacy of dark wizards is known to outsiders only as a humble manufacturer of sub-standard automobiles, but, I assure you, they are far more. Their foundries produce all manner of goods: from automobiles to high-quality xylophones, from breakfast cereals to the very diapers I wear on my head. Why, even without their technological stranglehold on the Internet, they could shut it down instantly by crippling the world’s supply of ramen noodles, thereby starving countless thousands of Systems Engineers. “Great Lord”, I thought. “What terrible purpose are these madmen pursuing? What evil master stroke requires simultaneous control of semiconductor trade and bear gall bladder trafficking? What does the manufacture of jet engines have in common with the fabrication of soy-based breast enhancements?” And then I realized it: the means WAS the end! As surely as I slaved over my keyboard, some other poor captive was toiling over a plastic bag filled with mashed soy beans. These wicked warlocks meant to enslave the entire human race! And how could I, a lowly serf, hope to overcome these powerful wizards when their sole aim, the focus of all their terrible powers, was my very enslavement! Oh, how I wept that night – bitter tears sprung from the bottomless well of my despair. I truly believed that I would never again reach the beloved waters of the Cesspool, or worship at the feet of my one true master, Lord Rune. Then, one pale and humorless morning, when hope had long since fled, the chief slave driver, a swarthy brute as mean spirited as a sober Joe Shaw, announced that we would begin User Acceptance Testing. Confused, as always, I watched in amazement as this bizarre pagan ritual commenced. Many stout trolls emerged from the bowels of the palace. They were angry. There was much gesturing and shouting, most of it between the trolls and slaves drivers, but then, to my horror, I noticed that the focus of eveyones ire had shifted to your humble Buzzsaw. I could smell to nicotine and hot sulfur on the trolls’ breath as they pressed closer and closer, forming a tight circle around me. They were beating their chests, and flailing their arms wildly. “Heavens above”, I though to myself, “This gruesome ceremony will surely end with my sacrifice on their pagan altar!” My strict diet now made perfect sense: my body was now well-cured by generous helpings of pickled roots, and I was to be eaten raw! But then, just as the frenzy was reaching a howling crescendo, one of the slave drivers held aloft a scroll of yellow parchment and a sudden and eerie hush descended. “Behold”, he cried “the long lost Requirements Document”. And then he began to read aloud from this hitherto unknown sacred text. The trolls were much distressed, and seemed to dispute the authenticity of the text, but the slave drivers were relentless, and threatened to brand the trolls as heretics if they did not submit to the teachings of this arcane text. As everyone listened in rapt attention to the readings from the parchment, I saw my chance for escape. The trolls were fond of taking breaks to meditate while holding smoking sticks of fire in their toothy jaws. They had forgotten to lower the palace portcullis after the last such break, and I made my break, slipping away unseen. I ran, and ran, and ran; breathing the sweet air as only a free man can, but still anxious to return to my homeland. Finally, I found my way to the gathering place of the great Metal Dragons, where I bargained with their keepers for transport across the Great Water. I boarded the giant metal beast, and as she gently lifted me heavenward, a great peace washed over me. I gazed sleepily out the window upon the beautiful countryside. The scene was idyllic: shepherds tended flocks of dun-colored dogs as they grazed peacefully in verdant minefields. “Hmmm, best that Mace never visits this place”, was my last thought as I drifted into a deep and restful slumber.

It's really just the bottom half of the state that is on fire. Most of us up here think that now would be the perfect time to finally turn off their water. Speaking of water, London in November is tempting, but my health insurance doesn't cover trenchfoot, so, much as I would like to go, I am going to have to pass.

The Scene: A deserted car lot on the outskirts of Seoul. Buzzsaw, a lowly serf from the House of Rune, sits forlorn on the sidewalk. The approaching tempest is but a gentle zephyr compared to winds of despair swirling in his breast. He has failed to find a steed worthy of his Lord Rune, and is now lost and without guidance in the land known as the Hermit Kingdom. A stranger emerges from the mist of the approaching storm Stranger: Greetings Weary Traveler! Your garb is unfamiliar to me. From whence have you journeyed to reach these fair shores? Buzzsaw: Greetings. I am Buzzsaw. These are the proud trappings of a serf from House Rune, and verily, I am a humble servant of my Lord, Master Rune. Stranger: But a great tempest approaches, and you will surely be drenched wearing such meager attire. Buzzsaw: Master Rune does not like serfs spreading pestilence in his land, so during intemperate weather, I am permitted to don a burlap sack and wear the diaper on my head. I guess I should change. Stranger: Who is this Master Rune of whom you speak? He seems a wise and learned ruler. Buzzsaw: Oh, he is a most radiant and munificent Liege -- a wise teacher and benevolent benefactor. I was but an ignorant fool when he took me in, but after many moons under his sagacious tutelage, I have learned the difference between the blunt and pointy ends of a stick. He protects his people from the great ogre-curmudgeon that inhabits our land, the foul-mawwed Joe Shaw. But, I am disheartened. I am now separated from my Master by the Great Water, and it has been many long nights since have used a Magic Portal to check the Cesspool for guidance. I fear that many repetitions of the pointy stick lessons will be required unless I can speak with my Liege soon. Stranger: “Magic Portal”? You seek the Internet! Weary Traveler, I can be of service in your time of need, for I am in the employ of a great Sorcerers Guild – the very guild that created the Internet. Buzzsaw: No, that cannot be. The Internet was created by Al Gore, a golem sent from the future. Stranger: Hah, a peasant myth. Here, witness other powerful enchantments of my masters. This is a 15 teraflop cell phone with a holographic screen. It probably isn’t due for release in your land for several years, but here they are freely available to all journeymen. [Much ohhing and ahhing from Buzzsaw] Stranger: Here, come with me. We have machines built of enchanted sand that will connect you to the Internet. You can download Lord of the Rings IV. [buzzsaw and the Stranger travel to the headquarters of the Sorcerers Guild. A palace of black glass with glowing runes painted on the side.] Stranger: Here sit down. Are you pleased by the 75 inch LCD display? Buzzsaw: Gates of Hades! This machine is possessed. Look, it speaks in tongues – mystic ciphers that look like part of a Mensa quiz. Stranger: Oh, those are Hangul characters -- the written text of this land. Here, perhaps this will be easier. [stranger manipulates the machine] Buzzsaw: That is better…. But wait there is still a problem. I cannot connect to the Cesspool. What could be wrong? Stranger: Oh, that is the Great Wall of Fire, a barrier erected by our wise enchanters to protect us from the dangers of the unbridled Internet. Buzzsaw: But, but … what am I supposed to do with this machine if I cannot view messages from my Liege or surf porn sites? Stranger: Here open this document. It is called a spreadsheet. It contains a list of your deliverables. We need you to complete all of these items in the next 4 weeks. Buzzsaw: “Spreadsheet”, “Deliverables”. Is this whole place bewitched? Does everyone speak in tongues? I just want to speak with my Liege. Stranger, transformed into evil Slave Driver: I AM YOUR LIEGE NOW PEON! Get to work! You are already behind, and we will be having half-day project meetings three times a day, so I don’t know how you are going to catch up. Get to work or feel my lash on your back! [The Scene: Several days later. Buzzsaw sits hunched over the machine of enchanted sand. Evil Slave Driver glares at him in the background] Slave Driver: Slaves must eat! Today you have many choices: pickled cabbage, pickled radishes, pickled mung beans, or this strange looking root that we found out back and decided to pickle. Buzzsaw: Oh cruel Fortuna, why have you forsaken me … [Fade to black]