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Patch

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    The Peng Challenge Thread – Never Safe to Say

    in Combat Mission Shock Force 1

    Posted

    No surprise here ... one Goobernational casting covetous eyes on another.

    Fine Stuka, fine but do it proper ... if you want to propose the lad for Serfdom (and gain first rights of refusal of course should he prove worthy of being made Squire) then complete form 445.8/a in triplicate, notarized (and by a notary who writes in English this time) and we'll announce it to the world and, likely enough, fulfill all the hopes and aspirations of the lad.

    Joe

    Um...Joe, I hate to tell you this, but carbon paper was phased out years ago.

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    The Peng Challenge Thread – Never Safe to Say

    in Combat Mission Shock Force 1

    Posted

    Ah, our own version of Omar Khayyam. But, because Dalem is a creature of the 21st Century, there is no "and Thou".

    Bloody good thing, too. Did our own Dalem mention that on Thursday he had lunch with Sci-Fi writer Steven Brust? Probably not. I'm imagining that even if he had, he wouldn't mention that he'd had lunch with him a couple hundred feet from my apartment.

    Oh, I knew about the lunch. I wasn't invited, of course. And that's just as well. Because, if I had been invited, I would have shown up only long enough to steal one of Brust's shoes, and run off laughing into south Minneapolis. And I'd have gone to every fan site on the web for Brust's various books, and chortled, and said 'Ha! I've got one of his fecking shoes!'

    Well, long enough to have a couple of glasses of wine, and then steal one of Brust's shoes.

    It wouldn't have really been theft, of course. After all, I had 3 terms of German from his father at Carleton College in the early 70s. That makes us almost family, in some ways.

    I remember Herr Brust (the Elder). Big time Communist. One class, we began by discussing early German literature, but it ended with him ranting about the ultimate collapse of the Western Economic system, and he did a lovely bit describing empty lunch bags blowing through the parking lots of failed factories. Steve Johnson, a classmate, did a lovely bit of making a sad, soughing wind noise to accompany it. Herr Brust was slightly deaf, so it went unremarked.

    Just as well. The only reason I passed out of my language requirement at Carleton was because I made a point of sitting by Johnson, and whenever I was called on to give an answer about dative/accusitive/etc. I looked blank until Steve Johnson whispered the answer to me.

    Good times, good times.

    Little was I to know that one day I'd be reading his son's books. In a couple of the early ones, he made references to places in Northfield, where Carleton was, such as the Hill of 3 Oaks. What I could tell you about that hill.

    But I shant, because you're all unworthy swine, and the mysteries and wonders of my younger days aren't for sharing with a shower like you lot.

    Safe to say, though, that I began my career as an Old One, sitting around a fire in the Wasteland and wondering about complete bloody idjits, had it's genesis somewhere, now didn't it?

    I think I am worthy to get to read more of your younger days stories. I'm worthy to read all of your stories. So I want more stories!

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    The Peng Challenge Thread – Never Safe to Say

    in Combat Mission Shock Force 1

    Posted

    Shaw patented silliness on display there. Since I am Lord God and Supreme Being of this here thread, your statement cannot conceivably be true, since any choice I make, either for action or inaction is automatically and by definition sacred, holy, and godly.

    A word of kindly advice: maybe you should consider giving up eating shoe polish.

    Michael

    I thought you were pestilence?

    Or somefink like that...

    0

    The Peng Challenge Thread's Got Talent!

    in Combat Mission Shock Force 1

    Posted

    There is a thing you have to do, when you are 'Grandma Steve'. You have to play games. I have been excused from playing the games of Small Friends for some time, because...

    Well, because Small Friends are so much better at playing together, these days. I sit lately with their Mom, downstairs, talking, these days. We get caught up on life, and how things are, and politics, and such. And we explore once again our friendship, her and 'Daddy', my friend Chris, and we are, for those moments when they get home, adults again, remembering that we were friends long before they had children.

    My Small Friends have still been there, of course. Demanding 'Grandma Steve, come and play with us!'. And their Mom tells them 'No! Grandma Steve wants to talk to Mommy and Daddy for a while! You two go up and play with Polly Pockets (a weird, cheap, aimless doll toy), and Grandma Steve will play with you later!'

    But, for many months, Grandma Steve has not, necessarily played with them much. Of course, I still play with them. But between the need for everyone to have dinner (and believe me, for someone who's 'this close' to living on the street, a meal with friends is a livesaver), and watching some TV, and practicing piano, and such, there's been less time for play, and more time to be...a grown-up.

    But for a while now, I come over, and we goof around a bit, and maybe watch some iCarly on TV, and I love them, and they are glad that I am there, and I get caught up with their Mom, who knows that I'm too old, and fat, and broken down to chase after small girls, and then I go home.

    But they remain my Small Friends. And I remain their Grandma Steve. It's like... a contract.

    There are too many nights, lately, when I lie there in the dark, and begin to wonder how I'm going to go. Heart attack, stroke, embolism, aneurism, sudden massive failure of all internal organs. Every day filled with fresh aches and pains, sudden numbness, occasional disorientation, unexpected shortness of breath, dizziness...

    It's only a matter of time. And sometimes every moment of mortality hits me, late at night, lying there, all alone in an apartment that hasn't been cleaned in years. But when I can't catch my breath for fear, I remember that I have Small Friends. And... I know a different kind of fear. How can I let my Small Friends down?

    And I take strength in that. I'm staying alive because there is NO GODDAMN WAY that I'm going to die and upset them. Also, I figure it irritates the rest of you, so it's all good.

    But, tonight, we played games again. Their games. The games that when you try and describe them to an adult, they look at you like you're drunk or high, but they are THE games, for little girls.

    They are silly, and precise, and rigid, and repetitive, and hard to explain. And you can change them, but only at certain points, and only so much, and after you change them, you're not in charge, because they become The Game, again, and go back into the hands of the children.

    If you've never played one of these games, you will probably not understand. And you can order armies and nations, and make mankind bend to your will, but if you have never played one of these games, you will die and go to hell, and no one will remember you, and good riddance.

    So, tonight, we were supposed to play four games. As God is my witness, I can't remember what they were all supposed to be. Each game was decided by Small Emma, the great decider, and they each involved a different 'American Girl' doll. Her Mom and I agreed that one of the greatest movie remakes in Cinema history would be remaking 'Saving Private Ryan' with children landing on the Normandy beaches with American Girl dolls. Think about it. German soldiers, poised with MG42s in their hands, sited in on the beaches, and suddenly, the landing crafts disgorge an army of little girls with dolls in strollers, on plastic ponies, dolls in carriers...

    Would YOU pull the trigger?

    So, I was there tonight because I picked up Small Emma at school, because her Mom had a terrible cold, and had to be there to let in the stooge from Centerpoint Energy to make sure the furnace was in good shape for the New Heating Season.

    I like to be there, in these situations, because I love to see my Small Friends, and because they're amongst my oldest friends, and to pay back the fact that they've been feeding me for months, off and on, and because I am Grandma Steve.

    My Small Friend Emma is now a Second Grader. This means she walks down the hall from her classroom with all her stuff to the lobby of the school for 'Parent Pick-up', and she sees me, standing there, waiting for her, and she smiles, and says 'Hello, Grandma Steve! Goodbye, Shannon' she says to the small girl she is walking with. She is such a big girl, now. It's another day to her. A fun day. I blink away tears. It is a fun day for me, too. The tip of my index finger on my left hand has been partially numb for months. I went to the doctor about it. They started me on a round of medical tests that cost me around a $1,000 before I decided I'd rather deal with the numbness and loss of dexterity rather than the loss of whatever little money I had, especially since they weren't able to tell me anything.

    Anyways, there was going to be four games. But I was downstairs, drinking Christmas Water with their Mom (think 'rum and coke'; their Mom had a horrible cold, and was drinking cranberry juice with sparkling water), and getting caught up. And I told them 'we would play the games, all the games, when the boiler guy came'. And he arrived, and we went upstairs to play.

    We only got to play the first game, because Small Friends, like adults, have big plans, but will settle for playing one silly game a lot. So, I was there. And it was the same sort of game I remembered so well, from when Small Emma was much smaller. There were more details, but it was the same sort of goofy game.

    So, in the game, Small Emma was the big sister, and Nora was the smaller sister, and the doll Felicity was the next smaller sister, and some weird arsed Barbie type doll was the smallest sister. When Emma explained it, the Barbie doll was the daughter of the America Girl doll, but since they were both supposed to be sisters of Emma and Nora, I stepped in and said that wasn't going to work from a simple point of genetics and not being in Appalachia. I suggested that the dolls were twins. She pointed out that they didn't look alike. I said that they were fraternal twins, rather than identical twins. This was considered, and because she only barely understood my explanation, she went with it.

    So everyone had to go to bed, and I was 'the Dad', and she was 'Ruby', the oldest sister, and Nora was 'Abby', the younger sister, and the two dolls had names that aren't worth worrying about. And we all went to sleep, but Me, the 'Dad', had this thing about singing when he was asleep, because he'd had too much 'Christmas Water' to drink. So, I lay on the bed and started singing the Eric Bogle song 'And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda'.

    You can see how the games of children mirror reality, eh?

    So, she'd take the blanket and throw it over my face, and I'd go "What, what, what! What's happening?"

    And she would, all small child older sister second mother say: "Grandma Steve, you had too much Christmas Water to drink and were singing again. Now be quiet, the children have to sleep!"

    And then she and her sister would giggle like loons.

    And then, we'd do it all again. Over and over. It reminded me a lot of when I was a younger myself, except that there wasn't much singing, then, and not so much laughing.

    And then, when it was morning, we all woke up. And Small Emma made us all breakfast.

    We sat at the little table in her room, and she brought us 'breakfast'. I got a plain donut, and Nora got a chocolate donut, because she loves chocolate donuts, and Emma had a strawberry donut. This exactly matches the silly, plastic food that Emma has in her playset, in terms of plastic donuts.

    And, before we could eat the donuts, Small Emma told us: "Okay, now we have to pray." Her parents are agnostic/atheist.

    She knelt at the table, and put her hands together in the classic 'Small Girl Praying Hands' diorama. And her Smaller Sister did the same.

    And I said, 'Whoa, whoa, whoa, Emmasine! Who are we praying to?'

    And she told me: 'God'

    So I told her: 'God? Is he here? Where is he?'

    'He's in the sky. Now, Thank you God, for our food...'

    'Emma, how do we know it's a God? What if it's a Goddess?'

    'It's God. Maybe it's Zeus. Whatever. Now, thank you for our food...'

    I will never forget that moment. Little girls, raised by atheists, but whose grandparents are devout Lutherans. But they've also been raised on Disney Films, so that they know that, in 'Hercules', Zeus is the father of the gods.

    So, God. Zeus. The Goddess. Darwin. Whatever. Look, Grandma Steve, we're saying grace now, okay? We're thanking God for our food. Shut up and play the game. Maybe, just for a moment, old man, we're going to give thanks to something.

    Shouldn't we give thanks for what we have? And isn't it the foolishness of old people to make a big deal about the name? How many millions have died because old men demanded that a certain name was used? Or that no name was used at all?

    Maybe we should thank someone for what we have, everyday. God. Jehovah. Allah. Zeus. the Goddess. Darwin. Whatever. Aren't we happy for what we have? Do we have to believe in someone, to be thankful? Isn't it enough to be thankful, and to have?

    Every night, before I go to bed, I thank my friends for being my friends. I thank my family, for putting up with me. And every night, now and forever, I thank God, Christ, Jehovah, Allah, the Goddess, Zeus, Darwin and any other god that may or may not have ever existed, or be listening, for my Small Friends, Emma and Nora.

    'Cause my Small Friends are way cool. We play games. And we're thankful. Maybe someday, they'll know how important it is to be thankful.

    I'm thankful for another Small Friends story.

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    The Peng Challenge Thread's Got Talent!

    in Combat Mission Shock Force 1

    Posted

    Well, I've mainly grown 'out'. But I've certainly gotten older, and, when I was younger, there was certainly a gain in height.

    Also, I've become incredibly wise. I can competently deal with sticks, goats, questions about squirrels, and you incredible shower of fools.

    The other night I was watching TV with my friend, Smaller Nora. A moth fluttered by, and she flinched away from it. I told her: 'That's just a moth, Nora Nu.'

    She told me 'I do not like moths'. I said 'Oh, moths aren't bad. They're like butterflies, but not as cute'.

    She sat silently for a minute or so, eyes on the TV, and then in a serious, small girl voice said 'Moths suck all the blood out of your body'.

    ...?

    I looked at her in horror. "My gods, Nora, what a terrifying world you live in. Moths do not do that. We have to have a talk about where you're getting your Natural History from."

    I mean, there are moths everywhere. How could the little bugger even go to sleep at night, thinking that? No wonder she can always find a stick...

    But Übergnome, she is correct. Moths do suck all the blood out of your body. They especially like little Gnomes!

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