Here's a PENNY NOW GO AWAY... A PANTIELESS PENG CHALLENGE THREAD.?

[Lorak]

Sigh...

I'v been slaving in this living hell that I didn't even think Berli could imagine. This so called invention called work is about to drive me past the breaking point today. But I could not let this vile nonsense of declairing the great literary device, that is the "GOR" series, a joke. Tarl Cabot of Ko-Ro-Ba was a God compaired to you little priest kings. Bah! I say! and Feh!

Lorak the loathed

P.S.

I also have a confession for father Peng. As I was standing outside watching the latest group of people carry thier boxes out. Never to return. I had a moment of sadness for them and thiers. Then I just pictured them all as Mouse and it did quickly turn into a "sucks to be you" state of mind. But I need forgivness for that moment of weakness.

[ 06-20-2001: Message edited by: Lorak ]

[Lorak]

Just a chance to add one more...

FEH!

[ 06-20-2001: Message edited by: Lorak ]

[dalem]

Why do I hate Marlowbrow????

Because by cleverly dragging this reflaktik game out he has caused me to become confused and I am losing track of my plan and I just pulled a Croda and ran a platoon straight into my own mortar barrage. In the immortal words of Charlie Brown during football season, "AAAAUUUUUUGGGGHHHH!!!!!!!"

Boy howdy, do I hate him. I am going to start a vicious rumor amongst my troops that all the Germans are really Carrot Top fans; there will be no prisoners taken by my lads today.

[Berlichtingen]

I loath each and every one of you. I expect that all of you are at fault for my run of luck this evening.

Lorak!

Scrib thusly

Goanna (every bit the rat bastard in person as I expected): win

Berli: guess

Bauhaus (cheating bastard): win

Berli: It ain't rocket science

[Mark IV]

c.) Never buy an Ericsson cell phone, nor any of their other products.

42. They wish you thought they were Swedish, but you don't and they're not. Only Finns know how to make cell phones (or arrange for the best-fed little 16 year old slave laborers to make them). Swedes can only make curious tanks based on Tamiya modeling fantasies.

L: Geier probably has stock and relatives in this company, which in his case amounts to the same thing.

xxi. I will be gone for a couple of days Doing Important Things, without a cell phone. If you did not receive a turn, it's because I hold you in lower esteem than the Others, as though that were possible. It is indirectly related to the consumer report above, meaning I have already expended my normally ample stock of bile on the Party of the Defective Part.

MrPeng and/or chrisl suck or are dead or are cheating or have already lost. I think we know where the truth lies. So to speak.

Things were beginning to pick up around here, as our intellectual ballast was cut from the wicker. Fortunately, gravity has a way of re-asserting itself. Welcome back, Mr. Shaw.

I will keel the rest of you Saturday. A lot.

[ 06-21-2001: Message edited by: Mark IV ]

[Berlichtingen]

***The entrance to the mausoleum fills with a sulfurous fog, in which twisted fugures that can only be the damned can be seen. It is unlikely that the passage leads back from wence the four cowering figures came.

Berli's foot taps a cadence of impatience...

[ 06-21-2001: Message edited by: Berlichtingen ]

[Berlichtingen]

Day one of the Mutha Beautiful LAN Party has come to a close... Btw, dis I mention that Goanna is a rat bastard in person? A rat bastard with a funny accent I might add.

Lorak!

Add the following to the tome:

Berli (righting the previous wrong): Win

Bauhaus: Did what he does best... lose

Goanna (funny accent): Win

Moriarty: like this is a mystery

Bauhaus: Win

Moriarty: Do you see a trend here?

[Mace]

<BLOCKQUOTE>quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by Mark IV:

Tamiya modeling fantasies.

<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

I have those!

Mace

[Stalin's Organ]

****ta_MI_ya**** you moron, not Tanya!!

[Mace]

<BLOCKQUOTE>quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by Stalin's Organ:

****ta_MI_ya**** you moron, not Tanya!!<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

I bloody know that, you socialist soviet republic sexual-extremity!

You obviously haven't had the joy of putting together a Tamiya kit, but then again you probably keep both hands firmly placed on your namesake!

And next time address me as Sir moron, you lowly insignificant skidmark on the underwear of life!

Mace

[Panzer Leader]

Well, since Mrspkr is taking so god-awful long to get to the climax of his tale (the waiting has gone from anticipation down to "get on with it!" Mrspkr) I will go ahead and give you part two of my story, "Red Sun over Crodaburg."

****

...The man steps forward, club held out as if to ward off any ususpecting blows by the champion. He does not understand that Panzer Leader could slay him with but a flick of his wrist. The champion lets the man feel strong as he inches his way forward.

"What is it, Mrspkr? I know you well enough that our day on the field of battle will not go un-remembered, but I see a new fire in your eyes, a fire no doubt caused-" a shaken fist towards the sun, " by our common foe. But you seem to have forgotten that foe, warrior who I once named friend. Tell me, do you too seek a return to the ways of old? Do you want to retreat from the borders of the southern lands, and forage once again over the great dunes of the Blighted Lands?

"You were but a babe when the wars began, Mrspkr. You know aught but war, and now, with the death of your king and liege, you want to retreat. Where will you go, warrior? Back to your mother's suckling teat? She was raped and murdered by the outlanders. Do you remember that? To your fathers hovel? It was razed while he defended the alabaster walls of Jabo."

With a glance back, no doubt towards the Historian the sunken cheeks of Mrspkr disappear into the throng. There is a pause in the scrabbling of the crowd and the champion waits, arms crossed.

Soon a sound can be heard. It is a ringing, jangling clatter coming from the scrub road. Heads turn to the south to warily watch whoever - or whatever - might be approaching. Soon it is visible as a wagon pulled by a gaunt pair of dromedaries. At its lead walks a man in motley garb. As he nears the Altar Stone, he raises his hand in greeting and pulls his caravan of one to a halt.

He is the Merchant. His garb speaks of a thousand cultures, some dead for a thousand years. His journeys take him from the Blighted Lands into the South, and he claims to once have seen from a ridge the mythic Southern Shores. There is no doubt that he is well-travelled as a single glance at him will prove.

He strides forward, his woman Emma slinking behind. Her hair is firey, curled, and singed at the ends. She too wears the lionskin so common in the south. The thin hide stretches over her dark skin, accentuating her strength, but she still walks behind, obedient to her man Pawbroon.

On his belt is the gear and trinkets of a hundred craftsmen. Across his back is a shield picked from a corpse in the ruins of the besieged town of Crodaburg. From his belt hangs a tool of unsual aspect, made from an unknown smooth material, it resembles a massive phallus. He claims to have gotten it for a trifle from a fleeing band of femal acolytes outside Jabo. He calls it his "fire poker" and its char-blackened tip shows its use tending the nightly camp fire.

Striding forward, he calls to the men of the Blighted Lands. "On my carraige I have brought these many miles the body of your slain king. With him rides his half-brother, Peng wounded but not mortally so." With a glance to the champion, a nod, then a return to the throng. "Give me the payment that is my due, and you shall have your leaders, old and new."

What was before a stirring now became a clamour. All heads turned from the altar to the new spectacle before them. They all knew Pawbroon from his days riding alongside the battle-wagon, like carrion crawlers following for the feast that is soon to come.

But had a vulture ever returned a fallen comrade? Had a jackal bowed before the honor of dining on a general after tearing out the entrails of a lance-man?

Seanachai hobbled out of the crowd, this time with a man (more a dwarf) next to him...

[Marlow]

<BLOCKQUOTE>quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by Panzer Leader:

...Panzer Leader ...was raped and murdered by ... a gaunt pair of dromedaries ...<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

pantie's life ... is a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound

and fury, Signifying nothing.

[MrSpkr]

***Berli's lair. Sulphurous smoke hangs above the floor. Low moans drift through the walls from all directions. Berli stands, tapping his foot impatiently.***

Berli: "Well, now who do we have here? MrSpkr I know -- who are the others? Come now, don't be shy.

***The Four lower their hoods revealing themselves to be MrSpkr, Speedbump, Leeo and YK2.***

Berli: "YK2? Running around with this bunch? That IS a surprise . . .

YK2: "Well, you know, I was, umm, slumming. Besides, the cause seemed worthy - better than those rusty Mousetraps I was gonna use."

Berli: "Ahh yes. The cause. Would someone care to explain just what in the name of My Home is going on here? I've been watching you Squires - and I demand explanation."

***MrSpkr walks to the side of the room, near where the smooth walls and pockmarks meet. He motions for Berli, who strides over impatiently. The two discuss matters in low voices for several minutes, then appear to reach an impasse.***

Berli: "But, and never forget this, Squire, one, I cannot allow you to STEAL from me - and no more nonsense about borrowing or 'I was going to put it back' - it's beneath even YOU; and two, even if I were inclined to not only allow you to live, but even to assist you in some small way, I cannot do it gratis. I have a reputation to uphold, you know - perhaps one day you will have one as well and, well, no, no hope of that, is there? In any event, I simply cannot let bygones be bygones."

MrSpkr: "Well, perhaps we could trade for it."

Berli: "You have nothing which might interest me."

MrSpkr: "I think I might."

***Pulls full, pulsating wineflask from his belt and holds it aloft.***

MrSpkr: "Leeo and I recently met in a nasty little match that ended up as a draw. He attempted to save his reputation by demanding a rematch. I saved something a little more, well, precious. Souls. Hundreds of digital, crunchy, pixelated souls from the dead."

Berli: "You boast too much. YOU do not have the ability or the means to capture a soul yourself -- that is MY specialty."

MrSpkr: "By myself, you would be correct; however, I had help. A chap named Simon Travaglia owed me a favor, though, and I was more than happy to call it in."

Berli: (looking confused)"Who?"

MrSpkr: "Do the letters B.O.F.H. mean anything to you?"

Berli: (irritated) "You mean my little, err, outreach program to the computing world? Why would HE help you?"

MrSpkr: "Let's just call that a distribution issue. In any event, he was more than happy to clear our books by loaning me a little program called 'StickySoul 3.0'. I must say it works nicely, though I had a, well, interesting time working out the compatibility issues on a Win 98 machine. Still, it was rather effective."

Berli: "Compatibility issues? That thing was written for a 1983 Osborne computer in CPM! Plus, it was only released on 5 1/2" floppies."

MrSpkr: "Yes, it was. Fortunately, I own a functioning 1983 Osborne and was able to translate the root code into something a little more, usable. I also happened to have an old 5 1/2" drive - I use it as a paper weight now, but it did come in handy . . ."

Berli: "So. It would appear you DO have something I might want. However, I am NOT going to let you take the Infernal Sliver. It is too powerful for you to use, and besides, I need a good toothpick. Perhaps I can find a, well, lower level of nastiness for your little quest."

***Berli opens the dusty cabinet and retrieves a small pouch***

Berli: "This pouch contains dust from the sight of the ancient First Battlegrounds, where MrPeng, Seanachai and I battled and where this Muthah Beautiful Thread was born. It should do nicely for your purposes."

***Berli hands the pouch to MrSpkr, who gives him the wineskin.***

Berli: "You are meddling with strong majiks, above your ken. You will probably fail in your endeavor - but it might be entertaining. For that reason, you may proceed. I would suggest you hurry, however, if you are going to accomplish your goals. The MBT is in a crisis, you see - the signs are everywhere. A blood red moon. Lawyer giving out compliments. The birth of a two-headed goat. Seanachai posting coherent messages that ALL the kaniggets seem to agree with. A plague of locusts in Egypt. Mace speaking of his fantasies. All portents of doom."

***Berli waves his hand towards the ochre clouds of roiling gasses. They part, and the stairway appears. As the Four replace their hoods and prepare to depart, Berli turns to examine the wineskin.***

Berli: "StickySoul 3.0 hmm? I suppose a surprise inspection of THAT subsidiary is in order. Perhaps we should look at downgrading that program to CBASIC and using cassette tapes in the distribution chain . . ."

**Berli opens the bag and begins pouring its contents towards the floor. Hundreds of screeching wails fill the room as grayish-silver clouds stream out of the skin and towards the smooth wall. As the souls collide with the wall, new pockmarks appear.

Meanwhile, the Four emerge from the stairwell into the mausoleum. As they step forward from the sepulcher, the wall slams shut behind them, sealing the entrance to Berli's lair.***

Speedbump: (shivering) "That Berli character gives me the creeps!"

YK2: "Distribution issues?"

MrSpkr: "I used to spread the word about his serial back in '95 when he first got started. My little way of expressing an opinion about network users."

YK2: "Oh. Well, anyway, we are off."

Leeo: "Wait -- that seemed too easy."

MrSpkr: "It was. He is trying to trick us. The dust he gave me won't work without a little help. Some other fragment from the battlefield."

Speedbump: "So what are we gonna do?"

MrSpkr: "I have already taken care of that. We must hurry."

***The Four disappear into the darkness***

to be continued

[ 06-21-2001: Message edited by: MrSpkr ]

[Agua Perdido]

[setting: Space. A spaceship cruises slowly across the field of view over a back-projection of the opening credits of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.]

[Cut to: Bridge of spaceship. The CAPTAIN GUY is wearing a chain-mail vest over his uniform, and his command chair is in the center of a crudely-drawn pentagram of blood(which on closer inspection is clearly red paint). ENSIGN NYE (THE SCIENCE GUY) is reading a Necromicon-looking book and chanting softly.]

CG [watching Buffy]: I wonder how they're going to bring her back from the dead next season.

EN(TSG): klaatu... barata... nikto...

CG [turning off monitor]: If it didn't work for Ash, what makes you think it'll work for you?

EN(TSG): Ash said it wrong, sir.

CG: I don't think you've got it right, either. Have you figured out what all the strangeness is in Cesspool Sector lately?

EN(TSG): Um, disturbances in Force, Captain... or something...

CG: What the hell does that mean?

EN(TSG): Incoming signal sir!

CG: Not again... put in on the viewscreen.

[Cut to: viewscreen. An agitated Mouse appears.]

M: Squeak! Squeeeksqueek. Squeaksqueeaaakk. Squeaakkkyyy SQUEAK squeeeek.

[Cut to: bridge.]

CG: Dammit, shut that crap off! Can't we get any other signals lately? Tune it back to MrSpkr's collaboration with Joss Whedon.

EN(TSG): Aye, sir.

CG [Watching the monitor]: Damn that Alyson Harrigan's cute--she makes a great YK2. Can you believe she's going out with the dorky English guy from Angel?

EN(TSG): PawBroon's on Angel, sir?

CG: Not YK2, I mean the gal who plays Willow! Besides, PawBroon's French.

EN(TSG): Aye, sir.

CG [Watching monitor again]: Although that new gal on Angel is cute, too.

EN(TSG): Uh, sir, don't you want a status report?

CG: Huh? Oh, sure. Is anything new happening in our games?

EN(TSG): Well, Leeo is almost out of men, we haven't made any progress against Seanachai, our arty is blowing up DekeFentle good, we're still stumbling in the dark looking for Goanna, and stevetherat's attackers apparently don't know where the VLs are.

CG: And Croda?

EN(TSG): A brainless prat, sir.

CG [turning back to monitor]: Nothing new, then.

EN(TSG): Uh, no sir.

CG: Then hold all my calls. This is the one where they fight that demon.

EN(TSG): Which one, sir?

CG: You know, that scaly, ugly one with the horns or claws or something, and it goes, "arr! arrggh!"

EN(TSG) [turning back to Necromicon-looking book]: Aye, sir.

EN(TSG) [clearing throat]: Klaatu... klAAAtu.. klaaTUUU...

[Edit to black.]

[ 06-21-2001: Message edited by: Agua Perdido ]

[Terence]

<BLOCKQUOTE>quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by Agua Perdido:

Incredibly long and jaw-droppingly dumb post by Gagging Pud Wierdo

<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

That was incredibly stupid. I have no idea why you bothered to edit it. A moronic spelling error would have vastly improved it.

You haven't come very far from the abysmal depths of your first Cesspool post -- that inane western-themed nonsense that I'm still laughing over.

Since Jshandorf is ignoring my challenge. I challenge you instead.

[Agua Perdido]

<BLOCKQUOTE>quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by Terence:

your first Cesspool post -- that inane western-themed nonsense<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

That was my second Cesspool post, you inattentive lackwit. The first was a lengthy historical essay detailing How We Got Here From Hate and Chupacabra's many repellent personal characteristics (among which are the unpleasant odor, the annoying sound he makes when eating Jell-o brand gelatin, his unfortunate choice of hairstyle, and his at-times-questionable taste in music--I'm sure you two have at least the odor in common). The Western one I dashed off quickly in response to Croda's heretical assertions about John Wayne's best film (which I'm sure you think was The Green Berets or something similarly bereft) and it's relative low quality can fairly be blamed on him, and I was certainly not plagiarizing that hack-formerly-know-as jdmorse (or maybe it was MarkIV I was plagiarizing. Uh, not plagiarizing, that is.)

Anyhow, did you have some point, ssn?

<BLOCKQUOTE>quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by Terence:

Since Jshandorf is ignoring my challenge. I challenge you instead.<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

No, sorry, can't help you. Even though you correctly used a hyphen to create a compound adjective above (by accident, I'm sure), this "challenge" not only contains a sentence fragment (thus not demonstrating half a goddamn brain or more), it also does not sound off like you have a pair or more.

If you want a game from me, your challenge must be vicious, grammatical and creative. And preferably in verse.

Agua Perdido

[Goanna]

<BLOCKQUOTE>quote:</font><HR>. . . next time address me as Sir moron<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

Let me be the first, but certainly not the last, to say "Well done Sir Moron." It is a moniker which I believe may stick to you since you asked for it specifically. Remember, you sheep shagging git, words have meaning and as Agua so aptly pointed out above, punctuation is next to godliness around here.

As Berli alluded to above, I am presently in residence at the hovel of bauhaus where we are engaging in a 24 hour LAN party facilitated by bits of kit which may or may not be owned by a certain employer.

As is right and proper, I am giving these souther Wisconsonites a right good rogering, and teasing bauhaus in particular since I made him wait until last for his. I expect to get on a plane for Oman this evening with a perfect record intact and leave behind a company of empty beer bottles (it would have been a battalion, but we aren't as young as we used to be), several upset NW Heraldites and a couple of pregnant pets.

The visit has gone so well that I will have to consider a raid on the Philly area on my next trip through the US.

[Goanna]

Woops. I forgot to add my new signature thanks to Moriarty. After a drinking and gorging session at a local theme pub, several cesspudlians are now speaking strayn properly.

[ 06-21-2001: Message edited by: Goanna ]

[**YK2**]

<BLOCKQUOTE>quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by PANTYMOUSE...

From his belt hangs a tool of unsual aspect, made from an unknown smooth material, it resembles a massive phallus. He calls it his "fire poker" ....

<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

And I was walking BEHIND him?

Ohhhh errrrrr I need a cold shower just reading that........

[Berlichtingen]

Bit bored waiting for Goanna and Bauhaus to process thier turns. Thought it would be good fun to read a bit of the Outer Board... CHRIST ON A F***** CRUTCH! Are these people allowed to breed?

[dalem]

<BLOCKQUOTE>quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by Berlichtingen:

Bit bored waiting for Goanna and Bauhaus to process thier turns. Thought it would be good fun to read a bit of the Outer Board... CHRIST ON A F***** CRUTCH! Are these people allowed to breed?<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

I don't know which of the Outerboard things I've seen recently were funnier - the guy who doesn't think an East Fron version of CM will sell well, or the guy who is demanding full frontal nudity in CM2. I mean, they're both hilarious, but only the second one was trying to be.

And WhirliBerli, if you have time to point your horned skull at the Outerboards, you have time to send more of your Green Jeep drivers to their collective doom.

[Guest PondScum]

<BLOCKQUOTE>quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by S*t*n:

Thought it would be good fun to read a bit of the Outer Board...

<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

You have been evil incarnate through uncountable eons of time, and you still haven't learned?

<BLOCKQUOTE>quote:</font><HR>

CHRIST ON A F***** CRUTCH! Are these people allowed to breed?<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

Well apparently someone has been a bit remiss with the old plagues and decimations lately. Not to mention any names or demand any turns...

Hate: it does a body good

[Marlow]

<BLOCKQUOTE>quote:</font><HR>Originally posted by Berlichtingen:

Bit bored waiting for Goanna and Bauhaus to process thier turns. Thought it would be good fun to read a bit of the Outer Board... CHRIST ON A F***** CRUTCH! Are these people allowed to breed?<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

So was it pantie's leg humping "OT - I'm so excited" thing or the "Wouldn't it be fun to make Volksturm look like Viet Cong" crap that you are referring to?

[Lars]

Lars wanders through downtown Minneapolis to find his favorite homebrew store, needing to make more ambrosia of the gods to get him through his day. Looking down, he spots something moving in the gutter. He reaches down, brushes aside a few scraps of garbage, and sees that it is a Mouse. A Mouse wearing a brown streaked Carmen Miranda outfit, lipstick, fishnet stockings, stiletto heels, and a very dazed expression.

"Well, look what we have here. Looks like you had a hard night, little fella. Can't leave you roaming the streets. The city rats might find you and lead you down the wrong path. Prostitution no doubt, and the last thing this city needs is you breeding."

Lars grabs the Mouse by the tail and drops the Mouse in an empty can of B-Brite. Continuing on his way, he passes a pet store.

"Here we go, little fella, they will surely be able to find you a nice home."

Lars enters shop, which is staffed by a little old man of Oriental extraction.

"Shopkeeper, I found this in the street. Could you do me a favor and take him off my hands?"

The old man looks down into the can and recoils in horror. Mouse is struggling to get out of the fishnet stockings.

"We no buy, We no buy."

The old man tips the can out in an aquarium containing a boa constrictor. The snake perks up, glides forward, flicks its tongue to catch its prey’s scent and immediately goes into writhing convulsions. The old man grabs the Mouse, puts him back in the can, thrusts it into Lars' hands, and tosses them both out of the shop.

"You go now, You bad man, You very bad man."

Lars picks himself up and dusts off his sleeves.

"How rude. I didn't want money. I just wanted a good home for this poor thing. There must be something your good for, little fella. Now let me think what can we do with you. You must not be the pet type, but what could be your place. Hmm… that’s it! Perfect, and you'll be doing a service to all mankind."

Lars sets off at a rapid pace, crosses the Mississippi, and enters the University of Minnesota campus. Enters the tunnels and arrives at the bottom level of the Medical Center. He spies a sign that says "Research Center" and heads that way. There is a door with a frosted glass window. On the window is stenciled "Cancer Laboratory - Authorized Personnel ONLY". Lars ignores the sign and breezes on in. A bearded Professor in a lab coat is picking white mice up one at a time and giving them injections.

"Excuse me, Professor, but I found this wandering the streets and thought it perhaps might be of some use to you."

The Professor turns around, startled.

"Eh, who are you? How did you get in here?"

Lars sets the can on the counter, next to the white mice. They begin to redouble their efforts to escape, except for the injected ones, which just lay twitching.

"It's a Mouse, Professor. I thought that maybe you could use another one. You know, for research."

The Professor looks into the can, his eyes widening in shock. Mouse, now hopelessly entangled, has the fishnet stockings wrapped around his neck and is gasping for air.

"Where did you get this? I can’t use this, it is already diseased! What ever this Mouse has, it appears terminal. Take it to Pathology, maybe those boys can dissect it and figure out what it has contracted. Now get it out of here before it infects the rest."

The Professor grabs Lars and the can, shoves them out the door, and slams it shut, causing a web of cracks to appear in the glass. Lars glares back at the door.

“Gosh darn, I do hate pointy headed intellectuals. I guess you’re just not outfitted for a life of academe, little fella. Worse yet, you are keeping me from brewing my beer. I need to get rid of you fast. There is only one thing to do.”

Lars walks back to his truck, slightly downcast, but determined. He knows what needs to be done.

“I’m going to take you out to my buddy Sven’s and let you go, little fella. You’ll have a good life in the country.”

Lars gets into his rusty pickup, slams it into gear and speeds off down Highway 12, double clutching all the way. He pulls into a dilapidated farmstead with a sign out front reading “Sven & Lena’s Mink Farm”.

“Hey Sven, how’s it going.”

Sven is sitting on the front porch, chewing snoose and cleaning a scattergun.

“Hey Lars, how ya been, watcha got in dat der can?”

Sven peeks into the can and blanches. Mouse is turning blue, his beady eyes are bulging and he is trying to chew through the fishnets.

“Uff Da, Lars, ya been reading dem funny magazines again?”

Lars blushes and drags a toe across the ground.

“No, Sven, I found him in town and thought I would let him go out here.”

Sven frowns, spits a stream of snoose, and puts down the scattergun.

“Lars, if ya let dat der ting go here, da field mice will yust have der way wid it, don’t ya know. Ya best loose dat ting fer da Missus sees it.”

Lars looks down, chagrined.

“What do I do, Sven? I’ve been all over town trying to get rid of it.”

Sven smiles, grabs the can and spits a stream of snoose into it, adding more brown streaks to Mouse.

“Dat’s a easy one, Lars. I need da feed.”

Sven walks over to an outbuilding and unlatches the door. Inside is row after row of cages filled with hungry mink. Mouse quits chewing on the fishnets and begins to squeek in terror. Sven pitches Mouse out of the can, into the center of the room, and relocks the door.

“Thanks Sven, I knew you could help!”

Sven laughs and spits in the can again.

“Dat dere were no trouble, Lars. Next time ya come out, bring some of dat der beer of yours."

Lars strolls back to his truck, a spring in his step, a glint in his eye and whistling “An American in Paris”. All is right in the world and soon, very soon, there will be more beer...

[David Aitken]

<BLOCKQUOTE>quote:</font><HR>Marlow wrote:

So was it pantie's leg humping "OT - I'm so excited" thing or the "Wouldn't it be fun to make Volksturm look like Viet Cong" crap that you are referring to?<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

I think Panty Liner now accounts for half of all the traffic on the forum. Quick, someone get a Churchill Petard or a Sturmtiger, load a shell up with Ritalin and let's see if we can punch through the incredible density of his cranial glacis.