Lurkur

Short Gamey update: My match with the nefarious Simon "Singing the Blues" Elwood is coming to its denouement, and I will likely lose, as I have been spending most of my time gathering my little green troops like chicks in the farm yard. Still, on the Fourth of July my hog-fed yokels from South Dakota made me proud! The situation: My massed troops were in a small woods kicking the crap out of a kraut platoon. Simon decloaks his stealth assault guns and moves in for the kill. I am confronted by a veteran StuH, rumbling like an Imperial Battlecruiser to the front, and a veteran JPzr IV that has already killed two tanks. Desperately I shift my Green Grayhound to the flank to get a side shot at the StuH before he transforms my stout-hearted but not-quite-ready-to-die lads into weeping, useless blobs of fleshy bits. I also throw my last tank into reverse, also going for the side shot. The JPzr roars to the flank to obliterate the Grayhound (which it does, I think parts are still landing). However, a Green zook team nails the StuH from 125-150 meters, (How 'bout that Harv? A zook team that DOESN'T suck?). Best of all, my plain vanilla green Sherman takes out the veteran JPzr! The little victory percentage went from 10% to 30% in a span of 5 seconds! It was a moment to be savored a lifetime. (Waves little American flag) God bless America! Lurk

We haven't used markers in over 10 years. It's a struggle to find real pencils in the studio anymore. Blame it on the heat baking my brain into a soufflé. Off to clean the stables now.

The following has been written to fulfill my liege's demands for a silly tale to amuse him. Any resemblance to characters living or dead is purely coincidental. Mormon Justice The long black sedan drove through the shimmering heat waves of the Utah desert. Along the edge of the Great Salt Lake, a dark block of towering basalt rose out of a hill. The sedan sped toward the structure, and disappeared into the tunnel-like entrance of the building. Across the facade of the building the words "OFFICE OF THE JUSTICAR." glow in the yellow light of that forsaken land. The car is met by an attendant, who smartly opens the door as soon as it stops. Out steps a grey-haired Man of great dignity, dressed in a charcoal-grey Bill Blass suit. He strides over to the elevator, gathering a retinue of assistants and assorted staff persons behind him. He barked out their names one at a time, and each in turn, succinctly address the issues of the day that they are concerned with. The man answers immediately and concisely, and that staffer speeds away to accomplish the task set before him or her. The scene is repeated until the Man stands alone before the elevator. The elevator lifts the man to his suit of offices, soaring 400 feet above the burning rock and sand that stretches to the horizon. The elevator doors open and his shoes echo throughout the marble colonnade that leads to a pair of large, 15-feet tall bronze doors. On either side of the doors is an expansive mahogany desk, and at each desk is a young woman. Both smile as the man approaches the doors. He points a tiny remote at the doors, and they open silently. "Good morning Justicar Shaw." The twin blondes chime. "Yes, good morning. Mary Kate, this 500-page report has three errors in it. Find them and correct them. That's a lovely skirt you're wearing Ashley." And with that he steps into his Sanctum Sanctorum and shuts the doors. Ashley smiles triumphantly at Mary Kate, while Mary Kate mouths the word "pitch" at her rival. The Man walks to the other side of his imposing ebony desk. The words "Joe Shaw" are fashioned in gilt letters across the front. On the work surface are the days intelligence report and pictures of his five wives neatly arranged in a semi-circle. Mr. Shaw sits in his leather executive chair and begins to read the reports. A rumbling noise erupts from his stomach and grows in intensity. Shaw's form, already slightly misshapen, bloats grotesquely for a few moments, and then begins to collapse like a tent that suddenly lost its support. The rumbling noise grows louder still, and out from underneath the desk rolls a weasel, trading blows with a skunk, while a large duck tries to break them up. Also spilling out of the suit are several gas bags stuffed in to take up space. "Knock it off you two! We're too close to pay dirt to blow it now." "The skunk is going to ruin it for us! He keeps on insisting on a ridiculous code of decorum that would confuse the Byzantines, for crying out loud. People are gonna get suspicious!" "That!? Procedure and decorum mean that I'm civilized! A lone paladin standing against the forces of chaos arrayed ..." "Oh stuff it!" the duck and weasel snarl in unison. The skunk counters, "If anything is going to wreck it for us it's the weasel's insistence on playing Jabo with every SSN who rises above the common scum." From the other side of the doors the sound of girls yelling is heard. The weasel leers with glinty eyes at the mere mention of the word Jabos. "Heh heh heh, I'll play that set-up any day, even with Australians!" The duck's right eye twitches horribly, "Don't say that word around me!" "What? 'Australian?' You got something against Australians? "Stop it!" You know they're after me. "Mind if we call you Bruce? Maybe we should plan a vacation to Auuustraaaal..." "Damn you, you're working for them aren't you?!! I'll kill you now!!" The twitchy duck thunders and hurls himself onto the weasel. The two go at it for a minute or so, kicking and biting until the skunk decides to stop things. He kicks the weasel in the groin and then the duck, shouting, "Shut up, shut up, shut up!" The weasel doubles over and makes no noise, even though his mouth is moving. The duck is strangely unaffected. "You forget skunk. I'm a duck. I have no external genitalia. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAH (*glack!)" And his laughter is choked short by two pairs of hands clutching and squeezing his throat. "I'm the brains of this outfit. Lose me and it all goes to pot!" the duck rasps. The fight is stopped by a heavy thud against the doors of the office and the sound of two girls screaming. The duck speaks, stretching his neck. "Now look. We have to maintain a certain amount of chaos in the 'pool. We need to be needed, or else people are gonna realize that the *is* no Joe Shaw, just a pompous skunk, and cunning weasel, a paranoid duck and some gas bags wearing a suit, and living large. I hate you both as much as you hate me, but for a little while longer we have to work AS A TEAM! Got it?!" The others nodded. "Good, now let's whip this uncess-like behavior thingy up to a fever pitch. I remember someone saying, "The size of the lie is a definite factor in causing it to be believed ... the primitive simplicity of their minds renders them a more easy prey to a big lie than a small one." Now get back in the suit!" The deflated form of Shaw twitches, and becomes disturbingly fluid as the critters find their places. The Man runs his hands over his form to smooth out the puffs and flaps and walks to the door. In the corridor Mary Kate and Ashley have each other by the hair and are trying to bash each other's head into the impressive mahogany desk. "You may be the smart one but I'll always be the pretty one!" "You idiot! We're identical twins!" Shaw steps around the girls and walks into the elevator. "Be back soon girls, there's justice to be done..." Lurker Squire to Boo_Radley

I thought Berli's office *is* abuse. [ July 01, 2002, 01:48 PM: Message edited by: Lurkur ]

More gamey updates: I am pleased to report to my liege that I am able to deliver the head of Nobah to House Croda. It was an unpleasant little fight but overwhelming, crushing American Artillery carried the day. My naive, wide-eyed farm boys from Iowa ran every time they were shot at. Nobah's crack and veteran forces bravely stood their ground as 105mm and 155 mm VT artillery dropped on their heads (and took said heads off). My last casualty was a GI who threw out his back when he slipped on a spleen while advancing. At first I was perturbed at the thought of having to use green troops, but it certainly buys a heck of a fireworks display! In the end it was a TOTAL VICTORY and I can at last howl the howl of victory! Awooooooooo! I realize that the pool is not about winning, but it is nice to be able to say one is chaste rather than merely impotent. Besides, being a bad winner is much more fun than being a bad loser and it gives me a rare opportunity to practice my smug, yellow-eyed gloating. Muhahahahaha I lost to Harv again, the gamey, flag-rushing, bastige-like Saskwatch. This time, however, I was not blown out, but he won a minor victory. Considering how dreadful the first two games went, this effort merits not the howl of victory, but the woof of "good-enough"-especially the part about him getting shot in the head multiple times. woof It is still too early to tell how badly I am going to lose to Simon. I have forced my furtive and timid troops to at least engage his ruthless jack-booted thugs, a logistical accomplishment worthy of Hannibal. Now we can get to the business of dying a lot. Oh, and that cheating, game-hacking, pasty-faced little nasty-man uses "stealth" assault guns. You have been warned. And may I say {brown-nose} how ably my liege is verbally sparring against Silvia Kahn and that Asthmatic-Kat-leg person. Hardly breaking a sweat. I can only aspire to someday wield the verbal rapier as well as you, sire.{/brown-nose} I am ready to take up the next part of my quest, or should I first finish my duel with the aforementioned nasty pommy-wanker-wannabe? And Joe-mama, I for one will not stand idly by while some delusional lunatic abuses his office (and lord knows what else of his) to whip the unwashed masses into a frenzy of fear, betrayal and paranoia. I therefore volunteer to interview the stenographer candidates. Lurker Squire to Boo_Radley

Well, I took the literacy rate of our Australian brethren into account when I wrote the AAR, hence the picture.

AAR Report- Warning: If you are clever (snort!) and have been paying attention you might know what scenario Harv and I have been playing, and this little tale might behave like a spoiler for you. On the other hand, we are both so insignificant that you have likely passed over our posts. This post is unbearably long, in the hopes of causing hand cramps for such as that. There, you have been warned. Death and Dutch girls AAR Colonel Harvey "Harv" Harvey of the British 1st Airborne division strode through the battered streets of Oosterbeek. Looking natty in his red beret and sounding way too much like Sean Connery for anyone's good, he inspected the new positions of his troops. He had ordered a withdrawal after the previous days horrific battle. The veteran troops were low on ammo, but his policy of nailing their feet to the floors of the buildings they were defending had brought satisfactory results. He was about to order the same for today when a sergeant offered a suggestion. "No disrespect sir, but if you only nailed one foot to the floor we could at least pivot if we get flanked." Another sergeant added, "Likewise, maybe if you only nailed the shoe in place, the men wouldn't be distracted by the pain of a rusty bit of metal poking through them, though I myself don't mind it." And to prove his point, he hammered a nail into his own temple. Harv considered this new proposal, and ordered it so. Only the shoes would be nailed to the floor. As he walked down the street a little further he was surprised to see a civilian woman standing outside of a shop, looking at some gloves through the shops window. Since the battle had begun most of the local Dutch had holed up in their cellars, coming out only to search for food or some other urgent item. Here this woman was, as unconcerned as if it were a quiet Sunday afternoon stroll. She was dressed in a blue sweater with a plain white scarf over her jet black hair. Harv strode up to her with purpose, and demanded to know what she was doing out on the street. She looked at him for a moment through dark sunglasses, and then removed them before speaking. She had incredible ice-blue eyes and impossibly full red lips. He was startled at how any woman trapped in this hell could be so beautiful. "Why Colonel, I was simply looking for some gloves to complete my outfit. I intend to throw quite a party for you brave men to thank you for... 'liberating' us helpless Dutch girls." She said the word liberate with a slight affect, and Harv nearly shuddered when she said it. "Perhaps you could stop by later tonight? I have heard that the Allies are already in Nijmegen, surely they will be here tomorrow, and you will be sent back to England, and I will have lost the opportunity to thank you 'personally'." All Harv could do was feebly nod. If he could hold out until tonight, it would all be worth it. He no longer cared how many men he lost, they would hold the town at all costs! She handed him an address written on some paper, put the sunglasses back on, smiled and turned away. He watched her walk off, until she rounded the corner. He breathed deeply and went about his inspections with renewed vigor. ........ Oberst Von Lurker had just finished detailing the assault plan to the German officers. They stared agape, mouths open in despair and appalled disbelief. Von Lurker had done his best, and it was apparent to everyone in the room that his best was still pretty damned awful. One of the younger lieutenants began to convulse, trying to contain his weeping. Von Lurkur cleared his throat to break the awkward silence, and then said, "We have been given a task gentlemen, let's get to it!" No one, not even Von Lurkur moved. Things were getting a little uncomfortable when he noticed a figure standing at the door. Nadia! A woman, dressed in a blue sweater and white scarf minced like a cat up to the front of the room. Every eye was fixed upon her, but none more so than Von Lurker, who bowed, greedily took her graceful hand and kissed it. His haunted, grey-blue eyes never left her face. She paused, took off her sunglasses and looked at the battle map. Some concern flashed across her face, and she made some quick adjustments to the arrows and flags on the map. Nadia stepped away from the map, and like the testosterone level in the room, hope arose in the hearts of those officers as they understood her changes to the plan. After giving them a moment to take it in, she turned on her heel and said to the commanders, "Now boys, don't destroy the Milliners shop on Wettersweg, I want some items from there when it's opened again, and I desperately need a hat that I saw in Dooyeweerd's, so would you go and capture it for me? I'd be very grateful." The room cleared in seconds. Nadia pulled a cigarette from her purse and inserted it into a long black cigarette holder. Von Lurkur promptly lit it. She took a drag and exhaled slowly. Looking with mild concern at Von Lurker, she asked, "Did you know that Colonel Harvey is commanding that force?" "I suspected it. He kicked my butt last time we met." "Hmmm, and the time before that. Not to worry liebchen. Do your best and let Nadia deal with Herr Harvey." Before proceeding to the assembly area, Von Lurker had a sergeant from his staff pull out some AAR forms. They read: To the friends and family of Company __, __ Battalion, ____ Regiment It is my sad duty to inform you that the entire Company, from its commanding officer down to the pet mascot: __ Was killed in honorable combat __ Was killed in less-than-honorable combat __ Was gunned down like dogs as they ran. __ Was killed by enemy artillery __ Was killed by friendly artillery (sorry) __ Surrendered after fighting against overwhelming odds __ Surrendered after a sharp engagement with enemy forces __ Surrendered to the first enemy private when my back was turned __ Was lost in combat, but I'm sure we'll find them soon __ Was killed in a logistical mishap __ Was accidentally run down by my command car __ Have thrown down their arms, taken up burlesque dancing and are billing themselves as the Prancertruppen at the Hotel Bellevue in Wiesbaden They have served their country- _ Well _ Tolerably _ Miserably And their sacrifice was not - _ in vain. _ without some value _ necessary Sincerely, Oberst Von Lurkur The weary commander reviewed the form. That Prancertruppen one would really hurt if he didn't have a 50% share of the profits... The war can't last forever. ........ The assault, of course, went horribly. The Germans had about a half an hour to dig British paratroopers out of about 4 dozen possible houses, stores, or apartment buildings. One flank was crushed by massed British gunfire. The gunners, chained to their weapons, gave no ground, and had to be shot down one at a time. Von Lurker's assault engineers would enter a building and be ambushed with point-blank fire from half a platoon or more. Eventually that enemy platoon was wiped out and the survivors gathered themselves up and proceeded to the next building. The Assault guns were also less than useful. The town bristled with AT guns and PIATs. To move was to die. To stay put was to die. Occasionally the desperate paratroopers counterattacked, and the Germans were a little more than curious why none of them wore a shoe on their right foot, and even more curious as to why rows of right shoes were nailed to the floors. Homes and shops were burned or were blown to bits. Fires raged everywhere,(except the haberdasher and milliner shops). In the end, the Germans took two, and contested 3 of their six objectives. The cost was so heavy that even though the British position was compromised, the battle could only be considered a minor victory for the British. Von Lurkur leaned against the pockmarked wall of a recently recaptured house and stared over at the steeple of the church. Harv would be over there somewhere-the gamey bastische! Well, nothing more to do but gather the survivors and set up holding positions until the next batch of lemmings arrived. Von Lurkur began to move down the street and was about to be gunned down by his own staff, when Nadia appeared to retrieve the gloves from the shattered store front. She looked at the men and then Von Lurkur's back. A dangerous, mischievous gleam burned in her eyes. She simply waved a finger at them and shook her head. The men, chagrinned, smiled embarrassed smiles and followed after Von Lurkur. Nadia watched them walk off, and wondered how many more battles Von Lurkur could lose and still live. Not many. ........ Harv was delighted. Sure, he'd lost over half of his men. Yes, they were out of ammo. Yes, the situation would be hopeless in the morning if he wasn't relieved before then. But Harv had a different kind of relief in mind right now. It had been years since he had "liberated" anybody. He quickly inspected the positions of his men, ordered another strategic consolidation and proceeded to the address on the little bit of paper in his sweaty hand. He practically sprinted up the exterior stairs to the second floor apartment. He eagerly rapped on the door and heard a delightfully feminine voice inviting him in. The chamber glowed faintly from the light of a few candles. He saw the woman, seated on a sofa. She wore a low cut red gown, black opera gloves, and cooly smoked a cigarette in its long blank holder. He wanted to take all of this in, but his eyes were irresistibly drawn to the line drawn by the meeting of her breasts. She smiled, but he didn't see it. She leaned forward to get something from her purse, and as she did so he became transfixed by the gentle swell of her breasts. She sat upright, and out of the corner of his eye he saw a luger. "That can't be good." he thought to himself, but his eyes refused to look away from the cleavage just a few feet before him. Three quick shots rang out. Harv's world went red, yellow, and faded into blissful, white oblivion. Nadia picked up her wrap from the end of the sofa. She slowly walked around Harv's lifeless form and opened the door. Outside, the whole town seemed to be split apart and burning. Hundreds of men lay dead and dying all around. Occasionally shots and tracers disturbed the dark, sighing wasteland that filled her view. She put the cigarette holder to her mouth and thought, "Men always complicate everything." She glanced back at Harv, and smiled, "All this situation needed was a woman's touch." She blew a small cloud of smoke through pursed lips and shut the door. Perhaps some grog like Dorosh, hehehe well, maybe not Dorosh as this does involve the fairer sex, can detail the Abwehrs development of the use of cleavage as a way of neutralizing allied soldiers. I don't know the details, but have heard that British troops, being underpayed, undersexed and under Monty, as well as simply being less attractive than your average GI, were particularly susceptable to this form of combat. Lurk

He told me he was a Ka-nigget from the house of Croda, when he made me his squire. Of course, he was wearing boxers on his head when he did so, but around here it doesn't seem that unusual. Perhaps I should have asked for references. As to the death of God, I am reminded of an snippet from the Sunday Morning show with Charles Kuralt. He was broadcasting from the Soviet Union, outside of a little church. He said that early in the revolution Lenin had been oppressing the church and boasted that now only little old ladies go to church, and soon it would be a thing of the past. Kuralt paused, smiled and finished. "That was over 60 years ago. Lenin is long dead but the little old ladies are still coming to church." Lurk Squire to Sir Boo_Radley

As a lowly squire, I would never presume to correct or contradict a Dame of the Pool, especially one with the terrible power to remove my head and place it on who-knows-what! Bowing and backpedaling obsequiously. Lurk Squire to Sir Boo_Radley

Obviously it's one-thousandth of a penny. Geeze, I thought you guys had converted to metric years ago. Lurk

Update time, from bad to worse: My green, blue-eyed American corn-feed Iowan farm boys are slapping Noba's veteran prancertruppen senseless. His flanks are being rolled as if they were on ball-bearings, and the center, which had bloodied my stalwart lads, is now taking fire from a wide arc, and the surviving bosche are picking shrapnel out of their hides. I will have to work pretty hard to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory on this one, but I have blown bigger leads than this. My blue farm-eyed American boy-feed South Dakotan corn dogs are playing "dodge the arty" with Simon, that nasty man. The troops are rather skittish about dying horribly, so I am providing cattle prods and goads to my officers to keep the men moving. Perhaps I might actually engage Simon's troops before the game ends. The game is going slowly, and I blame this on the fact that his bytes are traveling on the wrong side of the data stream. Deep sigh When I play Harv, I keep flashing back to the days when I was a callow youth, learning chess from my older brother. I only had to lose several hundred times before becoming competitive. This current match is a stunning Magnum Opus of despair, dread and loathing. The scenario, called A FIne Hexen Kettle of Fish This Turned Out to Be, has my morose and melancholy Landsers trying to pry his British Paratroopers with way too many toys out of a dense urban environment. Let me put it this way, my task is to drive a 16-penny nail into a beam of solid oak. The tools I have been given to accomplish this task are three spoons, a compass, a pair of needle-nose pliers and some string. The most useful of these tools is of course, my forehead. A few more bangs and either the nail will be driven or the pain will stop. Harv, in his dashing paratrooper beret and talking like Sean Connery, will no doubt get the girl. Only this time it will be my lovely spy Nadia, who will distract him with her cleavage, put a luger to his head and get me my posthumous vengeance. As if in a refiners fire, my malice towards this Saskatchewan...I was going to add more, but really, what CAN one meaningfully add to that?...becomes pure, until there is no sentiment or humanity left. One day I shall defeat my nemesis, stand with my foot on his throat and howl the howl of victory. Until then I am going to say, "Thank-you sir, may I have another?" about 1000 times, and continue to make Yosemite Sam noises like "OOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooo I HATES AT teams on CRACK!" Lurk Squire to Sir Boo_Radley

Some version of this has been discussed already, but I'll start it up again. Here's a wish for some future iteration of CM: The player would be represented by a Battlegroup or Kampfgruppe HQ. It would have 6-8 men and minimal combat capabilities. Perhaps the computer could even give the commander your name. All orders that you issue would come from this unit. BG HQs stuck safely away from the subordinate units are less effective-that is there is a command penalty. A BG HQ with a decent view of the battle would be more effective (and exposed) All HQs would then have a separate, new communications radius (I guess FO's, tanks and armored cars would always be in communication because of their superior radio equipment). Players would need to be mindful of keeping the communications chain intact from the squad to the platoon HQ to the Coy HQ to The BG HQ . If that chain is intact, then the player sees everything that those units see, and can issue orders to all his units. If a unit strays off on it's own, or an HQ unit is destroyed, then only visual contact will keep those stray units from dropping off the radar screen. Units that drop off cannot be given orders and become a "?" until contact can be regained. The AI then takes control of those units, who may proceed as planned, stop in place, or retreat depending on morale, exhaustion, and quality. Company and Battalion HQs would have a wide communications radius and Platoons a very small one, and perhaps this would vary depending on year and army. I would imagine that the Soviet army of 1941 was constantly losing contact with it's troops. The result of all this is to enforce a realistic command structure while playing the game. It would make splitting your forces very difficult unless you did so at the company level, and add the very real possibility of misidentifying friendly troops who aren't where they're supposed to be. Defending would become more of a challenge because without that communications link your forward posts could become invisible, and you would only know of an approaching attack by the sound of gunfire. Loss of the BG HQ would be devastating. At that point the issues would come from the next level down on the command structure. There would be a huge command penalty, perhaps a disruption of a turn or two where NO orders could be issued. Perhaps a stupid or unrealistic idea, I just remember the added suspense of my early Squad Leader days when you put that 7-0 counter down in a campaign game and tried to not die a lot. For some reason I nearly always did, regardless of how well the game went. I welcome anybody with or without some real knowledge of the capabilities of troops communications from WW II to tell me why this idea is good or bad. Feel free to revise as desired. Lurk

Update Time: Played a second game against Harv and lost again. YES I LOST!!! AGAIN!!! GADBLAGAFRASTIT!!!!!! I don't mind being out-generaled or in this case out-majored, but Lady Luck is no lady at all. She's a mean-spirited, capricious, self-serving harpy who feasts on crushing my every rising hope! If she smiles on Harv, well, fine. This time she was blowing him kisses, squatted down to pat him on the head, and in doing so left a big steaming pile of "do-not-pass-go-do" on my shoes. I can only imagine the Harv is using some form of mind control on my troops to make them suck so bad, a technique that the Canadians picked up from the indigenous people of Saskatchewan just before said natives were bored to death by the newcomers. Harv dumped Gallons of Die-A-Lot™ over my head while I could only stick my fingers into a chilled glass of Die-Lite™* and flick it at his face. It seems only appropriate to change my sig until such a time that I can manage a respectable loss to the smarmy bastiche! I could say more but I'll save it for the next crushing defeat. Noblah on the other hand, *is* dying lots, as he ought, and will be dying much more shortly. We have been playing "Mr. Halftrack, meet Mr. Tank!" He has a lone StuH against my unscathed armor. I look forward to locating his troops and bringing down the buildings in which they cower down upon their heads. I sent Simple Simon a turn over a week ago, and have resent it. That excuse of "I haven't received a file from him." will only fly so many times! Come out and take (or give) your beating like a man! Bah! (That's Bah!, as in "Humbug", not Baaah as in sheep, so back off slowly with your hands in full view, Mace) *Die-Lite™ Same great flavor of Die-A-Lot™ but with a third less casualties!

Update Time: Played a second game against Harv and lost again. YES I LOST!!! AGAIN!!! GADBLAGAFRASTIT!!!!!! I don't mind being out-generaled or in this case out-majored, but Lady Luck is no lady at all. She's a mean-spirited, capricious, self-serving harpy who feasts on crushing my every rising hope! If she smiles on Harv, well, fine. This time she was blowing him kisses, squatted down to pat him on the head, and in doing so left a big steaming pile of "do-not-pass-go-do" on my shoes. I can only imagine the Harv is using some form of mind control on my troops to make them suck so bad, a technique that the Canadians picked up from the indigenous people of Saskatchewan just before said natives were bored to death by the newcomers. Harv dumped Gallons of Die-A-Lot™ over my head while I could only stick my fingers into a chilled glass of Die-Lite™* and flick it at his face. It seems only appropriate to change my sig until such a time that I can manage a respectable loss to the smarmy bastiche! I could say more but I'll save it for the next crushing defeat. Noblah on the other hand, *is* dying lots, as he ought, and will be dying much more shortly. We have been playing "Mr. Halftrack, meet Mr. Tank!" He has a lone StuH against my unscathed armor. I look forward to locating his troops and bringing down the buildings in which they cower down upon their heads. I sent Simple Simon a turn over a week ago, and have resent it. That excuse of "I haven't received a file from him." will only fly so many times! Come out and take (or give) your beating like a man! Bah! (That's Bah!, as in "Humbug", not Baaah as in sheep, so back off slowly with your hands in full view, Mace) *Die-Lite™ Same great flavor of Die-A-Lot™ but with a third less casualties!

I don't have much experience with this stuff. Is it more, less, or as effective against tanks and targets in buildings as normal artillery? Many thanks in advance. Lurk

ahem I wish to report that the gamey bastiche known as Harv has crushed me in our meeting engagement by using the gamiest ploys I have ever witnessed—things like "covering flanks" and "using infantry to support tanks" and "providing overwatch." He kept using this thing, tractik? tankic? TACTICS! Yes, that's it, he used tactics in a most unsportsmanlike manner. If I didn't know better, I'd suspect he was a closet grog. Or I might have screwed up...nah! Anyway, if anyone in heaven or on earth cares, mark me down for a crippling loss. Autosurrender on turn 26 of 30. Major Allied Victory 25 to 75 Now I have to buy new frocks for all those transvestite lumberjack Canadians who survived... Lurk Squire to Boo_Radley

... Ker Dessel...brrrrrrrrrr... [shudders like a frostbite victim]

You'd probably have better luck if he thought you were a female lawn ornament. Perhaps if you dressed as a little dutch girl and puckered. My liege, the beshrubbed cad refuses me. I humbly suggest we send him a white feather and be done with him. Lurk

I was operating under the possibly mistaken assumption that when you went from "bogged" to "immobile" it meant you were hopelessly stuck in the mud, as opposed to having taken actual damage. I guess it is easier than it looks to throw a tread.

I did a search and this has been mostly discussed before. Still, I bring it up to make a suggestion and to whine a little. I recently had a StuH get converted from a fierce metal box o' death to a usless target because of bogging problems. It is currently enduring pot shots from a lone, unsupported PIAT unit. I would like to see it possible that a crew could exit or re-enter a vehicle voluntarily as the situation warrented, as opposed to sitting inside waiting to be roasted. Voluntarily leaving the vehical could create a LMG-like unit (assuming it still had mg ammo in the tank), or a crew with lots of ammo. One other option might be to have another vehicle push the bogged/immobilized tank out of the mud. A potentially risky manuever, but useful if a vehicle your counting on bogs at the start of the game. Once the bogged vehical is pushed x amount, it's status could change from "immobilized" to "bogged," or from"bogged" to "normal". Of course, there should be a greater chance of bogging for the pushing tank. This seems like it might be more relevant for CMBB because of the horrible mud and winter conditions of the east front. Can't wait to see those SU-152s from my PanzerBlitz days roll over the ridge! Lurk

Speaking of taunts: Noba-dy you have earned, acquired, stolen or perhaps purchased my master's wrath. I am the instrument and object of his displeasure. I have been sent to dispatch you as one might a howling dog in the middle of the night. I am prepared to toss shoes at your head until you go away, or we can settle this on the battlefield. Prepare yourself to wage war, you wallaby-wanking wag from western Australia! The woser, I mean, loser gets New Zealand! Send me a set up you hermaphrodidiot (I saw Dame Persephone's picture of you, you're not fooling anyone), I am compelled to play this as green Amis, because my master must think I don't hate my life enough as it is, and you get to be whatever the heck you want, because he has such a low opinion of your abilities. Choose the manner of engagement and send me the file. Prepare to be slow roasted on the red-hot barbecue of vengence. Or something like that. There was one other person on my list... *groan* Okay, Idjit, I have both poked and whacked you with my pointy stick. I have insulted every aspect of your lack of character. Yet you remain fixated on the Olde Gnome. Stop skulking about the bushes and come out here. Only because my master commands this am I willing to stand here. This time I shall be a little more direct in my approach. Idjut, *BOOT* I *BOOT* challenge *BOOT* you *BOOT* to *BOOT* a *BOOT*contest *BOOT* of *BOOT* battle! *BOOT* *BOOT* *BOOT* You can wait here for Seanachi to respond to you forever, for all I care, as long as you do it silently, but if you aren't going to accept this challenge, then at least hold this shrubbery and make yourself less useless. There, my quest is officially begun. This just in... My jack-booted thugs have been bitch-slapped into gibbering weeping old women by Harv's moose-bred Canadian hoards. I would hate him more, but I don't think that's possible. His tanks seem to be having some high-velocity mechanical failures though. hehehe And thirdly... I for one am pleased that The_Clap (for he clings like a disease) has ceased that verbal autism of praying to a Peng who either knows him not or despises him, and has come out to actually engage the pooligans directly. I'm sure that many in the mental health care racket would be impressed with the progress he's made, especially in light of the fact that he's being mentored in the ways of wit and humor by a Swede! No doubt he'll be brushing his own teeth and learning the days of the week any day now. In a little time he can be a productive member of society, take his rabbit turds with him and peddle them as raisins elsewhere. You go girl! No, farther than that, keep going...farther...

In that case I think I'll stick to the greenies, so I have the opportunity to cunningly call down artillery fire down on my own head, or cunningly use tanks as flaming smoke screens. Harv is beating the snot out of me, as planned. Once my sinuses are clear I will be be free to hammer him as he's bending over to wipe the snot off of his big hairy fists. I still owe Noba and (sigh) Idjit formal taunts. Soon...soon. Stay by the phone. Lurk

Holy Moley Simon! I realize that everybody hates everybody here but you must have something special, a certain Je Ne Se Qua' (like winning, they hate that!) that makes yourself especially odious to the kaniggets du cess. Certainly having a name like you do has made you bitter, (Heck, "Simon" would get a kid beat up by kids named "Niles" and "Percy"), and you have apparently nursed that bitterness well. My heartiest congratulations, and my gauntlet sir. Oh wait, let me insert the brick first, that's better! *WHACK* There. [shakes brick bits out of gauntlet] Send me a set-up you pommy-wannabe and prepare to be eviscerated, you squire to an Australian! I shall bring your head back as a trophy to the inglorious House of Croda, (home of the Nefarious Legions and the 59¢ Double-bacon burger) or I shall die horribly while failing miserably. Come on and fight me, you twitching, twittering tactical teet! I laugh, HA! mostly because it's too soon to start weeping and rocking back and forth. The only terms of battle I have been given are Green Amis attacking Volksturm. I don't care which side I (or you) take. Keep the fight to 1500 pts or less. Lurkur, squire to Boo_Radley Oh, and you other gits on my quest list, Gidget and Nobi-gone-kablewi, will get your proper taunting when I'm good and ready. Until then, wait by the phone.

Squire? Woot! I am unworthy, but that's hardly news. I shall have my coconut halves ready, sire. Small update: I am writhing in the crushing grip of the trap I sprang on Harv. Bastige! Psst, Hey Idjit, isn't that Senachi over there by the edge of that crevasse? Lurk

Cripes! I'm sorry I decided to bring my diesel generator along, it gets heavy after the first 25,000 ft. My thanks to Harv for complying with my sinister plans oh-so-completely. I forgot to factor in extra time for his been-in-the-woods-way-too-long Canucks to abuse and molest the wildlife they find on the way, so my timing has been thrown completely off. It could go either way. We have a set up where two rows of blind men facing each other have been handed chainsaws and told to walk forward. There will be some serious dying-a-lot™ very soon. In other news I have to say that, that after much soul searching I am finding The_Crapt's posts much more tedious and annoying than Idjit's. Idjit has a similar tragic, pathetic quality of a Kafka hero. His task is hopeless, futile, and done in such a fashion where he is publicly humiliated at every turn. The difference is that sometimes I can feel sympathy for Kafka, and only contempt and loathing for the ooze formerly known as that ponce who used to be called that blathering, mindless, humorless, prattling muffin of a girly man who introduced himself as Idjit. Besides, I bet if someone told him that Seanachi was "over there" we might stand a chance at losing the git. The_Crapt on the other hand, follows along, going on and on like all the stuff that Beckett edited out of Waiting for Godot. Is there some "Ignore everything this man posts" button I can push? Hmmm, The_Crapt is as verbose as The Bard, only he says much much less. What are the chances we can convince Idjit that The_Crapt is really Seanachi? Might kill two birds with one stone... Back to the chainsaws, I think I hear screaming... Lurk