imported_Hiram Sedai

Capt. Wacky should be bludgeoned, eviscerated, and then thrown into a dumpster like so much offal.

I blame Croda. It was his fetid stench from the festering chancre sore between his shoulders.

Hey Squadldr76, welcome to the CM forum. If you look in the tips and tricks subforum, there is a thread called "Anthology of useful posts". It's quite thorough and answers many questions regarding tactics for different situations.

I just had a Marathon flashback. How I hated that computer.

Hallo, mutter!! Wie gehts bist du?

I'm still playing against the AI and losing badly. We all know that the AI is gamey though. I play against people too and lose. Therefore, they must be gamey. I've played hotseat against myself and usually come to a draw because I'm not gamey. Nope, not me.

And, how did it go? Inquiring minds want to know. And so does that that cretinous idjit Marlow and his ilk.</font>

I'm here. Don't really want to be here, but "like a dog returns to his vomit..." You know the saying. I don't have the energy or inclination for game updates because of the apathy I'm feeling at the moment. I played a cute little scenario last night called Fredricksburg. That was fun. I feel as if I'm slowly turning into Bauhausand I find that somewhat disconcerting. Soon, I won't be cognizant of my bodily functions and speech will become tiresome and difficult. I need a vacation. Combat Mission take me away!! I truly want nothing more than to get snockered and play CM. Everything else is just fluff.

...meanwhile, back at the ranch...I was running with my machine gun while struggling to incorporate my flamethrower into a squad. I wondered if that would be gamey or realistic. I hugged the edges of the cheetos bag and did a gamey bag rush at the end because we all know that its much more fun to....

Does it hurt to be so unfunny?</font>

Does it hurt to be so unfunny?

Gentlemen, I played every single TCPIP game drunk as a skunk. I played most of my PBEM turns quite snockered. My opponents can attest to my suckitude. I can barely remember most of the games. I never really tried for a win, I just wanted a draw. Why? Draws are infuriating to the elite snobs of the Peng thread. When the twelve pack of beer is gone and the cat is gently mounting the monitor, that's when I give up and call it a night.

Ha!! It must suck to be in that picture!!

Hiram's confused. I've seen what happens when photos are submitted. I cannot imagine that the fate of those who would not submit photos would be worse. I have been the victim twice because I was pictured next to MRPeng (in my world, his name is a constant) and that picture was sent to Lorak. I do hope that I won't be the subject once more from Mrs. Evil. I should just be ignored. Never was here, not me.

Dalem: "My labia hurts." Hiram: "What is a Dalem?"

After that picture was taken, Hiram beat Croda to death with a dirt rake and hid the body from the authorities. Mmmm...much better.

Oh, it hurts. I should have known better than to gain the attention of Mrs. Evil. Dumb dumb Hiram Very creative, Ma'am. I'm honored to be pictured twice by your maleovent artwork.

Err... how would that be a bad thing?</font>

There once was a small village with some ex-militia from the great war. They knew that there was a huge army standing near the village and that without some assistance, they were doomed. They went to the clan elder and spoke with him. “Wise elder, how are we to defeat the mighty army?” they asked. The elder paused for effect and said in a gravelly voice, “Go to the shaman and ask for Croda on a stick.” The old soldiers looked at each other and wondered how a bumbling idiot who was impaled years ago could help them in their fight. They did as the elder has suggested and went to the shaman. As they came closer to his hut, they saw the moronic, inbred person named Croda stuck in the ground outside. They remembered dancing around the Croda during the Expectoration and Epithet hurling ceremony in which the Croda would be placed in the village center and the children would carefully place piles of feces near the impaled idiot. Their parents encouraged this because it meant that they would have a good harvest in the fall. The shaman was sitting in his hut mumbling to himself about how Crodaburg had ruined his chances with a mountain goat when the veterans stepped in. The shaman looked at them with his one good eye and started pawing at himself because of the body lice he had contracted from the Croda on a stick. “Ye must be here for my lawn ornament!” the shaman half shouted at his visitors. “Ye kin have him only if ye delouse him and paint him blue”. “As fer yer chances aginst the army, I haven’t a clue” It was a sad day as the village was plundered, the horses raped, the huts burned, and the shaman was forced to play parchesi until his fingers bled. The Croda on a stick was no help at all. Remember that a Croda on a stick won't help you against an army, kids.

Good! Let the hatred burn holes in your stomach. I hope the bile rises to your mouth whenever you think of me. Just know that your kindergarten effrontery is like a match compared to the blazing inferno of abhorrence I have for all things Croda. I detest your action figure with it’s frilly dress and frying pan. The odium of your refrigerator magnets advertising your twisted machinations make me grind my teeth. The very next time I see a commercial for Crodaburg, I will pimp slap the nearest person who reminds me of you. There is that small frumpy individual panhandling by the supermarket who smelled like you. He shows you both of his teeth when you give him a dollar. I wonder if he’s from your neighborhood where “men are men and so are the women”. Edited to note that the Redskins are useless and their fans are fairies. [ February 11, 2002, 01:24 PM: Message edited by: Hiram Sedai ]

Hi Mom!! Sorry about that stain on the couch. I was knee deep in a bag of cheetos and couldn't stop the salivary excess that follows the explosion of cheesy goodness.

Croda, shut your pie hole, you filthy cockroach. You’ve been scuttling in the cupboards and munching on Fruit Loops for too long. I have a shoe with your name on it, boy. Nothing short of your guts strewn all over the kitchen cabinets would make me a happy Hiram. Well, maybe that or both you and Bauhas being gang raped by hemophiliac lesbian heroin addicts in a field outside of Newark. Or, perhaps even your head on a pike outside of my apartment complex to ward off the evil spirits. It would be a daily ritual for the neighbors to stop by your fearsome visage to expectorate and hurl epithets. “Croda on a stick” would be a big hit around here. I’m back at work and struggling to return my schedule to some kind of normalcy now. Turns will go out some time this week. Bauhaus, I’m still waiting for you to taunt me so we can start a game.

Just stopping by to say hello. My significant other is recovering nicely from her surgery and is scheduled to come back to the Hiram abode this evening. She has been in what I consider purgatory: Her mother's house for one week. How can I get her to stop playing with her damn stitches? Thus far, displaying my twig and berries by way of distraction has only elicited guffawing on her part. Maybe I need to work on the accompanying dance number while I flash. My turns will go out when I have more than two minutes to myself.

It's a year later and I'm still waiting for relationship advice from Andreas. Other than that, I love the site. Really!!