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The Master, Margarita and the Peng Challenge thread

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...the visitor inquired, "What's your job?"

"I'm a poet," admitted Ivan with a slight unwillingness.

This annoyed the man.

"Just my bad luck!" he exclaimed, but immediately regretted it,

apologized and asked, "What's your name?"


"Oh," said the man frowning.

"What, don't you like my poetry?" asked Ivan with curiosity.

"No, I don't."

"What have you read?"

"I've never read any of your poetry!" said the visitor irritably.

"Then how can you say that?"

"Why shouldn't I?" retorted the visitor. "I've read plenty of other poetry.

I don't suppose that by some miracle yours is any better, but I'm ready

to take it on trust. Is your poetry good?"

"It's terrible!" said Ivan boldly.

"Don't write any more!" implored the visitor.

"I solemnly swear not to."

"The Master and Margarita"

by Michail Bulgakov

Here follows the rules. Read them after you have considered the above text. Then you are free to sod off. Gently.


The Rules of the Peng Challenge Thread are quite straightforward, really. Astonishingly simple, in fact, in a complex world.

First off, no one here likes you, has any desire to know you, and, in fact, the entire sodding Universe doesn't give a stuff what you want or have to say. Go Away.

Should you remain on despite the first rule, we next wish you to know that coming in, striking a pose, and challenging everyone in the Thread to a match will cause the wastelands to echo with laughter, and you will look like the stupid pillock you are. You will then be told to Go Away, more forcibly, and people will really begin to mean it. Pick someone out, preferably something as newly arrived and worthless as yourself, taunt and challenge it, and you might get a game.

Next, you should sound off as though your wit, courage, and intelligence were not in question. In the vulgate, Sound Off As Though You've Got a Pair! I believe it is. Oh, and more than half a brain, please. If you sound off well, wittily, and with great force of person and humour, you may be accorded a measure of respect here, perhaps for the first time in your doubtless tawdry little life. It's something to look forward to.

Finally, while sounding off, we'd like you to remember that this is the Peng Challenge Thread, not your local boozer where every vulgarity, expletive, and prejudicial slur are met by howls of laughter from halfwits who are only 15 minutes and 3 drinks away from spending the night in Detox. We have standards here, whether you can follow the concept or not, and if you ignore or trample them, you will not only be told to Go Away, you will Go Away, both from here, and hopefully the Forum in general.

[ 09-07-2001: Message edited by: Geier ]

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Somewhere in Europa, the rosy fingertips of dawn grope a hilly landscape. Birds are singing, but the otherwise bracing air is tainted with smoke from oily fires. Warriors grimly move up the slopes to the meatgrinder awaiting them. Radio traffic:

...This is Dog-one calling Alpha Male over...[static]...Alpha Male here, what you got for me, Lipkin?

...Sir! 1'st platoon's cleaning up the village on the ridge at phase line cockedleg, it's green for you to come up and have that look around you wanted...[static]...Copy that, be right up, Captain, over and out.

Maj. Etherius: [hustling forward] Nice work, son. Now tell me: you know how I always taught you to 'know thine enemy'? Well what've you found out?

Capt. Lipkin: Sir, I've got my suspicions... I think our opponent has chosen to fight as [hushed so the men won't hear] as...the Germans!

Etherius: The gamey bastiche! What makes you think that, Lipkin?

Lipkin: The word from the men, sir, is that the hills are alive with the sound of Mein Bein!

Distant shouts of 'fire in the hole!' The ugly chatter of an SMG is suddenly cut off by a muffled explosion

Etherius: Cut the sphinx riddle crap and give it to me straight!

Lipkin: Sir, they've been hearing shouts that appear to be in the German language. [pulls out Berlitz phrase book and opens to appropriate chapter] Stuff like, "Da! die Sheiss Amis! Hilfe, räddet euch! Ich ergebe mich." That's J-J-German, sir! I told 'em it's French so they wouldn't break and run.

Etherius: Let's not jump to conclusions, son. I'm not about to accuse a Kaniggit like Panzer Leader of gaminess on such slim evidence.

Lipkin: Well have a look at this then, sir. [Walks a few yards along the track left by an advancing tank. In the middle of the ripped up turf, pressed into the ground, lies a twisted hunk of metal. Points] What do you make of this, Sir?

Etherius: It's your job to do the guessing and then report the answers to me Captain! What is that thang?

Lipkin: It looks like an MG42 sir! A German weapon.

Etherius: [bending down to touch it] Ow! Shi..!

Lipkin: The barrel's still hot, sir.

Etherius: [sucking the blistered tip of his finger and thinking maybe now he'll get that purple heart] Listen to me, son. A man, in our great nation, is considered innocent until proven guilty. I'm still not convinced that Panzer Leader would stoop so low as to take the Germans in a QB.

Lipkin: There's more evidence sir. Look over there. What do you make of that smoking hulk of metal behind that copse of trees, sir.

Etherius: That? It looks like a jumbo refrigerator that fell on it's side and caught fire. Kinda slanty on one end, though.

Lipkin: That fridge just KO'd a section of M4's and a recon vehicle, sir.

Etherius: [Eyeing the wreck with new respect] Daaaang! And what you're getting at, is that that there's a Kraut vehicle?

A huge explosion, too close for comfort, drowns out the conversation. Dirt and rocks come raining down over the two ociffers. Screams from nearby.

Maj. Etherius: [shouting] It's still a little hot up here, Lipkin!

Capt. Lipkin: Yes sir! Sorry sir! Anyway, that vehicle is, well, it was a German Hetzer! Unstoppable little cockroaches. Our tank boys' shells bounced off it like so many ping pong balls sir!

Etherius: [noticing that the medics who'd been sitting around on their lard-asses finally seem to have something to do] How'd you kill it then?

Lipkin: [grins and rubs his knuckles] Well, we tricked them gamey bastiches, sir! He was shorn of infantry support so I ordered a squad to run up and close assault him from the side. That's them earnin' eternal glory in that crater sir. A howitzer's got a bead on 'em.

A yellow cube sails slowly in a high arc towards the band of heroes in the crater. There's another big explosion. Cries for stretcher bearers. General misery.

Lipkin: [continues] The Hetzer pulled back, not a bad idea in itself, except that he came into sight of some friendly TD's covering us from Hill 372.4 ! From up there they could get in a side shot. That was my PLAN, sir, MY plan! BwaaaaHaaaaaHAaaaaa!

Etherius: Two words, Lipkin: Silver....Star. Now come with me and we'll continue this conversation a little farther back towards the rear. I have to agree, it seems that we're up against them Germs. Keep a lid on that fact, Capn! Tell your men to keep going, and when you 'n me get back to the church, we can discuss more of the enemy's defensive 'tactics'.

Lipkin: [Grins] Yes sir, that oughtta be fun sir!

[ 09-08-2001: Message edited by: CMplayer ]

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For those of you who have given up on the US Lobby thread (and because I like to see my post number increased) I just repost something here, inspired by Brian's (sic!) Uberaustralianness...

Spook, Slappy, just give up, I have by good luck found The true history of World War II, according to Terry Gilliam. Here goes:

Following the successful forays into Germany in 1939 that forced her to withdraw her forces from Poland to meet that threat, the British Army inflicted a major defeat on the tactically incapable Germans in Norway in 1940, leaving the Germans reeling, and forcing their withdrawal in the summer of 1945. This was but the opening volley. It was followed immediately by a crushing blow in northern France, where the Germans were annihilated, and their trapped army had to be rescued from Dunkirk, to be shipped to Bremerhafen in a flotilla of little ****s. This accomplished, British and Commonwealth forces were instrumental in delivering unmitigated defeat upon the German invasion of Greece, forcing a German airlift to Crete to rescue their troops, where they were annihilated by numerically inferior New Zealanders. The island was lost to Germany in the summer of 1945, as a direct consequence of the gallant action. Not content with this series of total victories, a numerically outnumbered Commonwealth force beat the desert-experienced Germans and their well-led Italian allies back across the desert not once, not twice, but thrice, with the 8th Army finally advancing to El Alamein in pursuit. But then the trouble started. Not happy with being sidelined, the American army insisted on having a go. Being sporty, the British allowed them to land, supplying them with all the ships and planes they might need (after previously giving generous aid to the Americans to help them building up an army – the years 1939-45 saw a constant stream of armament go across the Atlantic to that end). Of course, the Americans being not only amateurs but also clueless, they had to be bailed out by the British time and again. This would draw out the war until 1945 when the Australian flag was hoisted on the Reichstag.

Meanwhile in the Pacific, the Japanese were left reeling by the defeats inflicted on them at Hong-Kong, in Malaya, and finally at the siege of Singapore. The Indian Army rapidly advanced across Burma into the North-Eastern parts of India in pursuit of the beaten Japanese. But here the problem of American meddling showed much earlier. Time and again the Australians (who were already lacking supplies of Castlemaine XXX, and had been cut off from the support of Shane, the Feng-Shui consultant) had to bail the Americans out of the trouble they got themselves in. Saipan, Tarawa, Iwo Jima, and finally Okinawa are major battle honours for the Australian army. Not only that, constant support with Australian weapons and advisers kept the Kuomintang in business in China. Finally, in 1945, having dropped nuclear bombs on Japan, Australian tank forces revisited their earlier maginificent victory at Kalkin-Ghol, when they inflicted the final defeat of the war onto the Japanese Army of Manchuria.

All lifted from ‘Monty Python’s History of WW2’ by John Cleese and Winston Churchill.

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The scene: a well-lit French Auberge, a fire in the background, throwing a warm glow through the room. The smell of glorious food emanating from the kitchen, young females giggling in the back-rooms, a gorgeous pouting French brunette offers a glass of wine to General ‘Hakko’ Bradley, for it is him.

Hakko (enraged): Patton, Shmatton, I am getting sick of this. He gets all the glory, and his men look dapper in the paper. Totally sick I am, dammit. How can I get a bit of the bloody glory. There must be more to go round.

A staffer, with a whiff of sulphur about him, and the unmistakable haggard looks of a well-known certain Berli (wanted on three worlds and several minor solar systems) rolls out a map: ‘Well, let’s see. (Pointing to a forest on the edge of the border.) Here! This will be the Winter of Patton’s discontent. When our men will storm once more into the German lines, taking the banner of freedom and smashing the might of the Nazi army, the Gents of the 3rd Army lying in bed will accurse themselves. Like a lion roaring, all will flee before the onslaught of the force that is VII. Corps.’

Hakko (soothed): Make it so.

The scene changes a dug-out, on the edge of the Kall Trail, deep in the dark, rain-drenched damp hell-hole that is the Huertgenwald, an area so bereft of anything interesting that only a madman, or someone of a particularly evil mind would get the idea to fight about it. This is a country where peasants marry their cousins, and cows die of boredom. Mortars whizz overhead, and the characteristic burst of the MG-42 can be heard in the background.

A ragged looking Captain (let’s call him Slappy), his eyes racing from one point to another, his shaking hands holding a long-cold cigarette butt, looks at a map. A private tumbles through the door.

The private (let’s call him Shaw) gets to his feet: F*ck that was close. Cap’n, what’s the story with them assault rifles?

The Captain (irritated): You what?!

Shaw: Them assault rifles, you know, the gamey bastards of Nazis have lots of them, and they use them too. Lots of ammo, they have. They shoot at us. Thought you should know. Don’t think C-Platoon is still there Sir, Cap’n, although they were tactically superior. Gamey SMG charge finished them off. You know, I heard somewhere that we outproduced the Germans in SMGs. Sure would be nice to have one or two of ‘em.

Capt. Slappy: Well yes, I noticed. (turning to his orderly) Get me Colonel Stelios Arachnides, our Quartermaster on the horn.

The phone rings back. Mortar explosions are coming ominously close. The gamey burping of assault rifles can be heard over the din of battle.

A female voice (conjuring up visions of Mae West in our young Captain, until he waves his hand as if to chase them away): ‘Colonel Stelios’ office, 9th Division, you beg, we please, is our motto, how can I fob you off today?’

Capt. Slappy: I wouldn’t mind speaking to Colonel Stelios Arachnides, if you please.

Female voice: He’s busy. (tapping of fingernails can be heard in the background, followed by a suppressed yawn)

Capt. Slappy: I know his third-grade cousin. He was in the same school as me.

Female voice: I see what I can do.

Colonel Stelios (for it is him): Ah, Kapitan, Shlappy, how isa the things?

Capt. Slappy: Well, I was wondering what Division could do for us in…

Colonel Stelios: Ahh, but don’t ask what division can do for you, ask what you can do for division, eheheh… Justa kidding you. You want air-support, eh? Maybe a submarine? Silk stockings? Red wine? Eh, Kapitan!?

Capt. Slappy: Ah, well, at the moment it’s raining, so maybe a bit of arty and I heard we produced millions of SMGs? Can I have some?

Colonel Stelios: Arty (he looks terribly depressed, at the thought of not being able to help his best friend), there is nothing I can do, eh. And for them SMGs, what price can you maka me? Many picked up by drivers. But I can get you some. Nica Thompson? Burp gun? What you offa? My uncle grego always says, you pay you get, eheheheheheh. Eh, Kapitan?

The mortar has now zeroed in on the dug-out. Bullets slug into the trees that guard the entrance. The company’s HQ defense platoon is being mowed down by a German squad that seems to have heard nothing of limitations on, or indeed the failures of ‘spray and pray’ fire. A 60mm mortar detachment dies in an airburst.

Capt. Slappy: I am getting busy I am afraid. I’ll call you back. Tell my wife I love her. (He puts down the phone, picks up his helmet and the .45, nodding to Shaw) ‘Let’s go.’

Colonel Stelios: Eh, Kapitan!? Have a nica day, nica talking to you. You want anything, I’m your man. Justa talka to me. Eheheheheheheheh. Eh, Kapitan?

The line breaks up, with German Ubertroopers storming into the bunker, emptying their SMGs in a gamey manner on the Capt. and Shaw. With the satisfaction of a job well done they look around.

A Feldwebel (let’s call him tero) nods to a Private: Sehr gut, Ja! If you had not done zis terrain analysis ven you vere 12 and a lad in the Hilteryous, ve vould newer hafe been able to place our HMG in such a vay zat it could enfilade ze hole position.

The scene changes back to the Auberge. The staffer (is not the smell of Sulphur stronger now?) looks at General Hakko. ‘That wasn’t so bad now, was it? Just 55,000 men. Now, why don’t we just concentrate our forces here in the north? I am sure nothing will happen in the Ardennes, nothing ever does…’

The curtain closes.

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Damn Cmplayer I haven't even SEEN the turn yet. If those cowardly TDs on the ridge really got my iron butterfly I will be PISSED. And another thing, damn right about the incompetence of the Ami leadership.

As my old drill sergeant used to say (or quote or whatever) "Damn Skippy!"

And just for you, babe: redface.gif

It's too bad that my highly provoative and inciting DAR (that's during action report for all you meat-heads) between Pawbroon and my Big 80's Battle (courtesy of master-scenario-designer <big>Rommel22</big>) was lost to the Lock of Madmatt so quickly. I left clues in their for my former frenchman on how to achieve a victory. Ahh well, here is a recap:

<BLOCKQUOTE>quote:</font><HR>The rest of the games are mot memorable, except for a game I started with my former-former-liege, Pawbroon back in 1987. My troops are all wearing penny loafers and I am assaulting his leg-warmer wearing troops. The falling artillery whistles the tune "Flashdance" and I just witnessed the feared american commando "Patrick Swaze" unit, who beat up an entire beerhaus full of my troops before shouting "Wolverines!" and sinking into the earth. <HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

That oughta do it.

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

If those cowardly TDs on the ridge really got my iron butterfly I will be PISSED.<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

Oh don't worry. I'm sure the rest of its brethren will come swarming out of the nest to to avenge it. Just remember, for every tin can, however big, there is an opener. (hmmm...that sounded a hail of a lot more profound in my head than it looks on the screen).

As for giving it away, you did the same with your latest turn-accompanying note, so quit whining!

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

Something about Australia winning the war<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

I knew that.

But we did it in such a way it looked like the industrial might of the Americans and Russians were the key factors in the Allied victory.

That's how humble we Aussie's are.


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lets see.. you took a peng thread started by.

1. a Swede

2. a smelly Swede

3. a Swede who gave up all his games like *snaps fingers* that!

4. did I mention smelly Swede?

5. Swede

Feh! That's the last time I take suggestions from a Smelly German who lives in England for Peng Thread Titles.

now if I don't respond to you, that means I don't like you and yes, you smell.

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

lets see... <HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

Hello Mr Halfwit how are you? I hope that THE FACT that my thread is infinitally (meaning "really a whole fragging lot") better than your drugriddled attempt at smashing your keyboard to your forehead is causing you severe discomfort and that The Authourities will be along shortly to put you in Vault 13 where you will rot until Fallout 3 is released, ie NEVER.

Hiram. Words fail me. All the sympathy in the world matters little I suppose. But you have mine anyway.

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

Hello Mr Halfwit how are you? <HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

Just fine er... Why are you asking?

<BLOCKQUOTE>quote:</font><HR>better than your drugriddled attempt at smashing your keyboard to your forehead is causing you severe discomfort


Yes my friend, the greatest evil is physical pain, so hold still while I aim to hit you with my new Baseball bat.

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

Can we get CM to model that?<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>

Only if we finally can get BTS to acknowledge and correctly model the national differences in the regurgitation process of the Holstein, compared to the Frisian cow. Otherwise Brian and tero would just get all upset again.

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

Ok, Geier, were's the damned cat?<HR></BLOCKQUOTE>He was last seen riding gamily away on an incorrectly modelled streetcar followed by a tall gentleman running after said streetcar toting an MG42.

Hope that helps.


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

He was last seen riding gamily away on an incorrectly modelled streetcar followed by a tall gentleman running after said streetcar toting an MG42.

Hope that helps.


I just hope that was not an HMG.

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Is it Friday night in Europe already? I ask because it's apparent that SOME of our Euro cousins have been at the sauce before they posted.

First we have Geier and his ... introduction ... to the MBT and then Germanboy did us the indescribable honor of actually posting TWO lengthy and wildly out of contact with reality posts. The second of which, I presume, was some sort of alcholically altered AAR.

Geier, in the future let's remember that just because MadMatt is going to close the thread it DOESN'T mean that YOU should start a new one. In fact, and I think I speak for virtually ALL of the non-Scandahoovians, you may take it as EXPLICIT (sit down Bauhaus ... well, yes this DOES have to do with Sweden but ... yes I understand that there are a lot of blondes, but when I said expli ... yes, I'm sure you would, but it's not what you think it is, trust me, there's a good Bauhaus ... oh, send a turn, I believe there's at least ONE more KT I need to kill) where was I ... OH Yes, EXPLICIT permission NOT to start a new thread. We base our judgement upon the pathetic job you did with this one.

Germanboy aren't you too busy with CMTV (whatever) to join us on a regular basis? If so (and please don't let us keep you from your IMPORTANT labors for a SECOND more than necessary) then you may take THIS as EXPLICI ... uh ... DEFINITIVE evidence that you need not post your drunken ramblings EITHER.

Euros ... is it any wonder we LEFT after we won the war? And don't give me none of that Commie propaganda about how Russia actually won, it was good old 'merican fightin' spirit and industrial might that done it. 'Course the Yankees might a' lost too 'thout allies like Texas and Ireland.*


*acknowledgement of rights to quip to Bill Mauldin

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