Lurkur

Ssshhhh! Not so loud. Are you trying to attract pengers? </font>

Ah, well met my bipolar bear of an adversary! Lessee...Um, I'll take the PzkwIVF2s because they bring out the color of my eyes. Lurk

I defer to the Justicar's ruling on such matters, because the point is not whether you win or lose, but how bad of a sport you can be in the midst of it. Oh, and don't forget the hate. There is nothing more satisfying than battering your opponent to the point that you are no longer a mere annoyance, but an object of pure undiluted enmity. When you get The PBEM turn with the message, "I hate you," well, there's no feeling quite like it. So let's not forget what it is that makes the 'Pool the 'Pool. Hate, and an unsporting attitude in all things. Speaking of unsporting, BOGGS, YOU YARBLELESS GIT! You were instructed to forward your piccy to Lady Persephone, and were challenged by myself. Thus far you have complied with neither demand. [Lurkur locates a brick (not THE BRICK) and places it inside his leather gauntlet.] Jim Boggs, I challenge you [THWACK! THWACK!] you gormless bint! [Lurkur deftly shakes out brick gravel from his gauntlet] Boggs, you delusional little marsupial. You picker of other people's belly button lint. It requires two threads and two personalities to express your utter lunacy. My pixeltruppen stand ready to cross swords with your besotted and bedraggled minions! Send your women folk to lamentation and wailing school, because there will be much lamenting and wailing and gnashing of teeth when the Nefarious Legions have dealt with you! Lepers who live in New Jersey will pity you. Hurricane Andrew will seem like a gentle spring storm compared to the Götterdämmerungish Sturm and Drang prepared for you! Stand and take your thrashing like any member of the 'Pool—with cringing, whining, shirking, drunkenness, excuses and counter-accusations of wrong-doing! If I do not hear from you within the week, at least with a lame excuse or a note from your wife excusing you from a good flensing, I...I...well, actually I haven't thought that far ahead...but it will be bad, with nasty, pointy teeth! [makes nasty, pointy teeth face, complete with hand gestures] You have been warned! BWUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAhhaaahahahah....ack cough...HACK...dang sinus infection...cough! God bless, Lurk [ December 02, 2003, 11:20 AM: Message edited by: Lurkur ]

Oh great, back to Boo and his yarbles. </font>

Let's see... So, employer discovered his is efficient you...something crow, I. Wow. That's like, deep, man. Deep. /SirReal </font>

I think it also bears mentioning that this glorious thread (may the cess ever flow) actually has women who are long-time residents, and that we are ruled by a Queen among Queens. That other thread may think of themselves as "He-man women haters," but really, their hatred of the True Thread is grounded in the gnawing, bitter knowledge that the cool chicks hang out with us, and not them! It's not that they're less cool than us to womenfolk, it's that they're COMPLETELY INVISIBLE to them! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! Lurk

You misspelled 'pus' </font>

Yes. Maggot! What happened to Lurkur? Did they flush him over in that other place? :confused: </font>

You misspelled 'pus'

I am posting this here as a matter of public record. My apologies to the Ladies of the Pool for the obscene use of emoticons. .......... The sound hooves galloping approaches the brood. Over the rise, Sir Lurkur appears in full armor, behind him a nameless serf manfully working the coconut halves. Sir Lurkur halts at the entrance of the brood, from whence dank reptilian smells and evils sounds usher, punctuated by the occasional "gggggrrrraarrggh." The serf steps forward to translate from High Peng to gutter Goodalese Greetings and felicitations, you repugnant little wannabe oiks! [Listen up, maggots!] Soddball has been rightly and manfully challenged by our combat gnome (though both are pretty challenged by the look of it). The outcome is not in doubt, though at the rate that Seanachi returns turns, it may be 2011 before we find out. In the meantime, while we wait to see if it be war or simply everlasting enmity betwixt the Cesspool and this ill-gotten brood, I propose that as many of you unworthy slack-jawed buffoons as desire meet me in the field of dishonorable combat. There you stinking slope-headed spawn of carnys will be mercilessly crushed and pressed like a rotted olive under the rough tread of a cess-sogged iron-shod jackboot. There will be no greater glory, no silly wagers, no quarter asked or given, the conflagration will be as pointless as your collective existence, or more truthfully, nearly as pointless. It will, however provide opportunity to put a finer edge on our mutual hatred, whiling killing many, many, many pixeltruppen and splodey things. [(uncertain pause) FRESH MEAT!!!! DIE!!!! GGGGRRRRRAAAARRRGGGGGGH! :mad: :mad: :mad: :mad: ] To those that scrape together enough of their meager manhood to stand before even the lowliest of kaniggets of the Cesspool: prepare to DIE-A-LOT™! [Eat my hot, molten TNT, maggots!! :mad: ] Now find someone who can write and ook-ook your response to them, so they will forward it to me, or e-mail me a set-up. Extra points if it's some vileness Rune has concocted. Now Sod Off! [Well, what the hell are you fairies waiting for? Charge!!! Gggrrarrrgggh :mad: :mad: :mad: ] Sir Lurkur

The sound hooves galloping approaches the brood. Over the rise, Sir Lurkur appears in full armor, behind him a nameless serf manfully working the coconut halves. Sir Lurkur halts at the entrance of the brood, from whence dank reptilian smells and evils sounds usher, punctuated by the occasional "gggggrrrraarrggh." The serf steps forward to translate from High Peng to gutter Goodalese Greetings and felicitations, you repugnant little wannabe oiks! [Listen up, maggots!] Soddball has been rightly and manfully challenged by our combat gnome (though both are pretty challenged by the look of it). The outcome is not in doubt, though at the rate that Seanachi returns turns, it may be 2011 before we find out. In the meantime, while we wait to see if it be war or simply everlasting enmity betwixt the Cesspool and this ill-gotten brood, I propose that as many of you unworthy slack-jawed buffoons as desire meet me in the field of dishonorable combat. There you stinking slope-headed spawn of carnys will be mercilessly crushed and pressed like a rotted olive under the rough tread of a cess-sogged iron-shod jackboot. There will be no greater glory, no silly wagers, no quarter asked or given, the conflagration will be as pointless as your collective existence, or more truthfully, nearly as pointless. It will, however provide opportunity to put a finer edge on our mutual hatred, whiling killing many, many, many pixeltruppen and splodey things. [(uncertain pause) FRESH MEAT!!!! DIE!!!! GGGGRRRRRAAAARRRGGGGGGH! :mad: :mad: :mad: :mad: ] To those that scrape together enough of their meager manhood to stand before even the lowliest of kaniggets of the Cesspool: prepare to DIE-A-LOT™! [Eat my hot, molten TNT, maggots!! :mad: ] Now find someone who can write and ook-ook your response to them, so they will forward it to me, or e-mail me a set-up. Extra points if it's some vileness Rune has concocted. Now Sod Off! [Well, what the hell are you fairies waiting for? Charge!!! Gggrrarrrgggh :mad: :mad: :mad: ] Sir Lurkur

Oh, I realize it's hardly a matter of necessity, merely the Queen's pleasure. I believe the Royal Library has several volumes on the subject of "Nasty and unpleasant things one can do to Australians, for fun and profit." If he proves to be troublesome, her Majesty can always banish him to the Gawdawffle thread.

Have no fears my Queen. Many would rather die than be ruled by an odstralian pretender. Well, actually they'd rather kill, if you get my meaning. Your obedient servant, Lurk [ November 25, 2003, 03:56 PM: Message edited by: Lurkur ]

Is it my understanding that in the midst of rightly prophecying doom upon the heathen usurper thread (and nicely done, though it could have used a bit more in the wailing and gnashing of teeth department), that you issued an invitation to come HERE? Have you gone completely off your bleedin' rocker? We need to be very clear about our purpose. There's no Statue of Liberty in Peng harbor, there's a feckin big neon <font size = 10> SOD OFF! </font> sign! Letting that shaggy in-bred brood of unwashed refugees in here flies in the face of everything this glorious thread stands, or in Bauhaus's case, sits for. We don't even want half of the people who *are* here, here! harumph!

The Duke of Yuck? The Dork of York? Or just grant him a ducky, preferably rubber. Lurk

You know, I have several Thai recipes that are very similar to eating open flame.

Here's another, how do you blow out the candles on the cake?

This seems apt: THE BIRTHDAY DIRGE tune: "Volga Boatmen" Happy Birthday! [thud!] Happy Birthday! [thud!] So you've aged another year Now you know that Death is near Happy Birthday! [thud!] Happy Birthday! [thud!] Happy Birthday! [thud!] Happy Birthday! [thud!] Death, destruction, and despair People dying everywhere Happy Birthday! [thud!] Happy Birthday! [thud!] Happy Birthday! [thud!] Happy Birthday! [thud!] Typhoid, plague and polio Coffins lined up in a row Happy Birthday! [thud!] Happy Birthday! [thud!] Happy Birthday! [thud!] Happy Birthday! [thud!] Now that you're the age you are Your demise cannot be far Happy Birthday! [thud!] Happy Birthday! [thud!]

[Lurkur assists queen into throne, whispers "Who will rid me of this troublesome grog?" in her ear as she is still coming to. Thinks that a spot of wine might be helpful. Unsure of what to serve for a manure-trodding, grog-induced fainting spell, rushes off to dispatch the royal wine-bibber.]

I think we need some direction from our Queen. Do we follow the Justicar's council and continue to ignore these besotted, drool-speckled bumpkins from that wannabe Goodpustule thread, or do we gather the houses to wage total war, have our way with their women, steal their livestock ('tho in Mace's case it would be "wayhaving" the livestock and stealing the womenfolk) and generally pound their dwelling into a stinky powder? Sending Seanachi out to be our champion smacks of David and Goliath, the original—not the show with the dog, except with a red pointy hat.

Well if that didn't earn Dorosh another death threat I don't know what would!

Some people just don't "get" art. It's obviously an ironic tribute to the emergence of the gestalt mindset of Tudor England as it appeared in Shakespeare's writing. Duh! And if I have to explain the symbolic significance ot the walnuts then I might as well have painted her on black velvet playing poker with a bunch of dogs! Wait! That's brilliant! Oh the irony, the pathos! [Rushes of to studio]

Justicar, Justicar, riding through the night. Hurries through the darkness, tries to set things right. He must replace the thong before she sees it's gone! Justicar, Justicar, Justicar!

Oh, and now that we have our beloved and moste radiant Queen back, shouldn't we set about having the coronation before she disappears again? Her Majesty deserves something lavish, perhaps all the knights of the 'Pool pledging their swords to her royal self. I'm sure our knicker-stalking Justicar can work out an appropriately sanctimonious pledge. There should be plenty of music, the caber and dwarf tossing contests, and minstrels to eat. All of the festivities should then be followed by some mindless combat between the knights, who, dressed in their finest silks and polished armour, will lead small armies of peasants, serfs and SSNs to die horribly at each others hands. Right then, let's get going. Work with me here, people!

Didn't I tell you about the unspoken Cesspool rule to "Never, never draw attention to yourself?" No? Well of course not, it's not called an unspoken rule for nothing. You have spunk, Mr Boggs. I hate spunk. It's time crush the spunk out of you like a rotten grape under my iron-shod jack boot. We don't tolerate the "chipper" here, unless it's to feed SSNs into one. This hallowed cesspool, this culvert of the cultured is where the dregs of the earth congregate to perfect their misantrhopy and vent their bile. To forge their character into a dark, rough-edged battle axe with one purpose. That purpose is...erm, actually we're still working on that...yes. Where was I? Oh yes! Gird yourself for war! (Although you may want to girdle yourself for war, that outfit makes you look a little thick in the hips) No wit, no clever one-liner can save you from the mindless fury of the unleashed Nefarious Legions! BWUHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! Send me a set-up, or forever live in dread, knowing that "I too, own Photoshop" and that you will see your head firmly affixed to a mind-boggling assortment of flora and fauna for the rest of your days if you shrink back from this challenge! Operators are standing by. Lurk Remember when this thread was about the manly art of the outrageous challenge? [ November 21, 2003, 10:26 AM: Message edited by: Lurkur ]