Leeo

42!

I drive a Lincoln, and it drives me to drinkin'. You, ponzy waiter?

Let's make that closer to 3:15 on Fridays.

I was always more of a bareback rider, myself. One time when riding horses with a lass upon whom I had a crush, it became apparent that the 'gelding' she was riding had apparently suffered through a botched job of said 'gelding' when 'he' became enamoured with the mare-in-heat pony upon which I was leading the way and afore-mentioned 'gelding' delivered a kick to my head while engaging in 'mounting maneuvers.' Fecking ranchers and/or veterinarians.

Do you have the springs holding the horsey to the frame well oiled? I hate that constant "squeakey-squeakey-squeakey-squeakey" when you bounce on it in your oversized hat and undersized chaps.

Once, at a wedding shower for a co-worker, I won a big "Crapweiser" beer mug for having our group dress me up in the best toilet paper wedding dress. Otherwise, I'm pretty frocked-up most evenings, starting around 5:30.

A toast to your Uncle, my Liege.

To bad you're sooo far away from the blessed coast, Hiram. Were you near, I'd enjoy buying you enough beers to make you puke. Not that the reverse peristalsis is the goal, it's just a bonus side effect.

<big><big>Yappy Hew Near!!</big> </big>

Noba, you putrescent pile of pus. You nancy nong with nano nads, you talk as if winning at CM is important. It should come as no surprise that after years spent in the MBT, you still have learned nothing. I may mail you a set-up. Goddess knows I don't trust you to send along some piece of crap you've played umpty-dumpty times before. I'll send something along when I've run out of more interesting things to do (such as cleaning my toenails, digging out the ditch, snaking the sewer, etc.) than play an Oddstralian.

The MBT is the place where people talk over the heads of lesser folk. Most folk "Just don't get it." It's the place where I've trounced on and been trounced by people infinitely better than the Outre' Boarders. It's the place where we've been given our own bit of electronic interference in which to barb, goad, cajole, incriminate, pontificate, and generally make a nuisance of ourselves. It's where I pounded Pansey Leader into a masticated pulp of pixelation. It's where I stumbled around through the rain and darkness just to spit in the eye of Berli's best bastiges. It's where I accidentally called an artillery barrage intended for Moriarty down upon my self. It's where I put up a valiant but futile attempt at a river crossing against dalem. It's where Nidan1 and I spent the better part of a year fighting over one particular village. It's where Agua Perdido kicked the crap out of me (but really, who hasn't). Why, I even managed to humiliate Seanachai into a spanking inflicted by myself upon him (but really, who hasn't). I've suffered myriad attacks by OberGrubenStompenFuhrer's marble-mouthed soldiers. I've battered Boo so many times I and him both don't have enough digits to count them all. I spent a dark night hunting Lawyer's troops through heavy forest, and fought off raving Frenchmen commanded by JD Morse. I've reviled Deke Fenkel, and jostled with Noba. I've started and never finshed myriad games with Hiram. I fought over a city with Elvis (and even bought him and Philly Phellatiator a beer over the internet). Indeed, I am a Veteran of a Thousand Psychic Wars, and I've got the bloody mental scars to prove it. Pity we never play the game...

Now that's just a fecking hoot, ain't it? I finally get my new computer stoopid (or stoo-pod if'n you be Peng) enough to play CMAK in a jerky-sort-of-way (sit down,bauhaus), and it's all "Oh, I'm very sorry, but I can't come to the keyboard right now, please leave a message." What a maroon! What kind of feckless bastige is Boo, anyways? The nerve, the unmitigated gall. I might just have to stamp my foot and load up CMSF. See if'n I don't!

Kerry Mecking Fristmas!

Sometimes I wonder, the point, of which is it? To spew and throw hate, or to inanely visit? The Justicar GRRrr's, who gives a damp whit? The fire as softened, let's all blow on it. Make it grow to roaring, like Ol' Yuletide's roar. A primal reflection, of gleeful hate's core.

You putrescent piles of pig poop, it's spelled Reavers, and I've actually partied with the guy that wrote that stuff. Actually, his younger brother and I are the best of friends. He even named a character (short lived as you'd ever imagine) after me when he wrote his first novel, On My Way to Paradise (and a very-good-read it is, too). However, that still doesn't absolve you lot of being the bottom of the fungus-chain.

I've been sick. Spewing, sweating, sleeping, soreness. However, even in the depths of lethargic malaise, I wasn't a fraction as sick as you lot of tossers. I hate you.

Hey Joe (apologies to Mr. Hendrix); That first photo of the little <FONT COLOR="#FF0000">x</FONT> is really something! What f-stop did you have set to get such a sharp image? And the Colors! Why, that red must've taken some real trickey developement techniques! Great job!

Feck off, Ah-Butt. It ain't Xmas, and you ain't Mary.

You wart on a toad; You puling, mamby-mouthed geriatric goat goader. I have better things to do than breathlessly refresh the MBT to see what you've shat upon this particular electronic canvas. Compare me to a canine, will you? I bark in your direction, you pustulent prole with a penchant for pederasty. You mewling milk sop, you fickle feck. I just might not let you into the village for the night. Whaddya think about that, Mr. "Bring the whole friggen American army to pacify a hamlet?"

How dare you assault me in such a mundane and offhand manner; I deserve better insults from the likes of you, Nidan1-boy-o. I know it's very difficult for a mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragging homo-coelacanth such as yourself, but quit gumming the teat, belly up to the keyboard, and say something vile; something that will make me take notice. Something that may offer a glimmer, a clue, that you are not just one of the many "play-it-easy-and-shallow" nosehounds who "inhabit" this dank and dismal place. Though it would be as a candle to my sun, for Gawd's sake, bring some feckin light into this miserable, dank, hate-hampered hall. Make me care, Nidan1. I double dare ya...

The stars have aligned, the Seventh Seal has been broken, the prophet has arisen, the Sun has gone sideways, and the Earth has stopped spinning on its axis, for indeed, yea and verily, I sent turns to Boo and Nidan1. Sure, it was a couple of days ago, and I'm unlikely to repeat said act for many moons to come, but I did send a file to both. Perhaps Nidan1 can finally be disabused from his aspirations for spending the night in our formerly-tranquil little village. Perhaps Boo's pixeltruppen will delay running into the underbrush so that they may experience some boom-lovin' from my tank's main guns. However, I wouldn't count on any of the above. It is a desperate, topsy-turvy world, and one can count on nothing. Well, nothing but the MBT. And hate. You can always count on hate.

Egads, Emrys, how sophomoric can you go?

I would like to formally apologize to Boo and Nidan1 for my glacial pace of play in our little tussles for domination of a patch of worthless ground, and a very fine village, respectively. I would like to say that I've been a non-turn-sending charlatan and a ne'er do well. I would like to point out that I've had a few minor health issues (can you say gout, Seanachai?) that have impinged upon my haste to return files. I'd also like to say that it is not through malice that I've been so reticent to play our games. I'd like to assure the buffoons that I hope to start sending turns again soon. I'd like to say those things, but I don't think I will. I am, therefore you wait. Deal with it.

Aww yeeaahh!

Piss orf, the lot of ya's. Which one of you feckin bastiges (Ladies excepted, of course) is brave enough to gaze upon The Best Album Covers EVER! Takes more than the likes of youse boyz to brave the immusement inherent in Cover Art. Bend at thy knees and quake!