AUSSIEJEFF Posted October 11, 2002 Share Posted October 11, 2002 Originally posted by Seanachai: Any sane individual would look at the ability to turn the souls of some dozen Aussies into the means of acquiring the soul of one worn out Phillipines street-walker as value on the investment.But, you are technically insane Seanachai. Therefore you could not possibly know worth when you see it. Keep up the joint barbed wire origami lessons with your new E-squire. You KNOW that's good for you! Once, and only when, you have figured out which way to turn it, give me a hoy and I'll gladly whup yo' butt into some semblance of shape on the Steppes of your patent misery.... Ego derideo tui visio! AJ [ October 11, 2002, 06:56 AM: Message edited by: AussieJeff ] Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Nidan1 Posted October 11, 2002 Share Posted October 11, 2002 Originally posted by MrSpkr: </font><blockquote>quote:</font><hr />Originally posted by Nidan1: Originally post by Mouse: </font><blockquote>quote:</font><hr /> Oh, and Nidan2, say not in two posts what you can say in one (or better yet, don't say it at all, git.)Shakin' the bush, boss.....</font> Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Boo Radley Posted October 11, 2002 Share Posted October 11, 2002 Originally posted by Malakovski: Language is a versatile garment. I wear it as fits my whim. And with a whim as large as yours, you'll need language the size and shape of a mumu. (rimshot) Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Berlichtingen Posted October 11, 2002 Share Posted October 11, 2002 Originally posted by Seanachai: He's just nervous. You know how anxious the new ones are to fit in and make their mark.If he wants to make his mark, have him piss on Sir Soundlikeasneeze's leg. That should do the trick Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Nidan1 Posted October 11, 2002 Share Posted October 11, 2002 Originally posted by Boo_Radley: </font><blockquote>quote:</font><hr />Originally posted by Malakovski: Language is a versatile garment. I wear it as fits my whim. And with a whim as large as yours, you'll need language the size and shape of a mumu. (rimshot)</font> Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Berlichtingen Posted October 11, 2002 Share Posted October 11, 2002 Originally posted by Seanachai: [QB]Yes indeed, I always stand ready to Crush Another Australian, as all here know full wellQB]We know you keep trying. Haven't heard of any resounding victories yet... well, yes we have, but those are usually posted with the addition of Oi, Oi, Oi. As the Anti-Aussie Crusader, you are a complete failure Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Herr Oberst Posted October 11, 2002 Share Posted October 11, 2002 Originally posted by Berlichtingen: </font><blockquote>quote:</font><hr />Originally posted by Seanachai: Yes indeed, I always stand ready to Crush Another Australian, as all here know full wellAs the Anti-Aussie Crusader, you are a complete failure</font> Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Noba Posted October 11, 2002 Share Posted October 11, 2002 A figure approaches the edge of the forest. Looking out, he sees a road, dusty and worn but strangely leading away to a shimmering wasteland. He decides to follow his original intent, even though drawn to the other way. Moving slowly, he approaches a paddock. In it a donkey contentedly munches on thistles, softly making sounds strangely like words...he passes without stirring the mangey beast. On the other side of the track is a fenced area with some tatty looking sheep. The look well fed, just sort of... "WELL EWES'D". He laughs to himself, happy at his little joke. Further ahead he sees what appears to be a Hippy in strange clothes sniffing a bright yellow flower beside the road. Carefully plotting a path around the bent over figure, he discerns a crooning sound. He hurries, but not too fast. He begins to wonder about that short straw he still clutches in his sweating hand...they wouldn't have cheated him ! would they ? He pauses, catches his breath. At the edge of the low lying village area he sees many signs broken and rotting beside the road. A few of them are readable. "WANTED - PREFERABLY DEAD." Someone had taken great pains to scratch out names and replace them with "SSN's" He takes a backward step, his bottled courage swiftly taking a plunge. Looking quickly around, he spies some cover in the form of bushes just ahead. He makes his way quickly and covers himself. Slowly his racing pulse subsides and he looks around. He is in an area quite boggy underfoot. His boots have a cake of... stuff attached. To his left he spies some broken down shacks. A door of one is propped open by a well worn brick. Another has a sign, just readable. "POLICE STATION" Scratched crudely underneath are the words "slapdragon" and "out for donuts". To the side a better kept building has the sign "Stenographers", although it too is empty. Craning further he sees "warning, grogs live here" again, empty. A building similar to a courthouse but smaller has a sign defaced by many scrawlings. The original read "Mister Speaker" only someone had taken all the vowels out. Strange. Underneath was 'ambulance chaser par excellence' and a smilie face attached to the end. Next to it, covered partially by weeds "justacarrot" and "olde Foul Joe"...written side by side. Broken beer bottles litter the site. Looking to the other side of the street he sees a washing line with a kilt and a pair of ladies briefs hanging side by side. (He quietly snickers to himself when he realises by their size that the owner of the kilt wears them...so THAT'S what they wear...) Next door, a large door on rusty hinges squeaks slightly in the breeze... He catches a glimpse of a man ? on his back under a boat, scraping. Words not for tender ears drift to him, "damned ice" amongst them. He realises that he must move to another area, he will be discovered if he stays there. Quietly as possible he leaves the cover of the bushes and quickly reverses his coat. He paid good money to blend into the neighbourhood - he hopes. Casually moving along the rickety fences, he spies a relatively well tended garden. Atop a rockpile is a tatty looking garden gnome. He freezes. The eyes are watching him ! Waiting, he notices the eyes becoming slowly unfocussed... he spies the empty bottles at the bottom of the rockery ! Taking in the scene with more time, he notices the faded red paint on the grotesquely swollen belly of the figure. Boy, can that gnome drink ! He moves on, safe in the knowledge that it won't be raising any alarm. As he leaves he sees many pieces of paper with writings that make no sense at it's feet. Typical. He feels more secure in his surroundings. Up ahead is a cluster a buildings with light shining from curtained windows. Soft music plays a lilting melody to the sounds of water being poured slowly into a large container. A soft -drunk- feminine voices drifts out to his ears... OI ! POOL BOY. MORE CHAMPERS, AND MAKE IT SNAPPY !HIC ! Boy, they can drink around here. He carefully approaches, making sure not to be seen. Looking into the room he sees two 'wimmin' with their backs to him in separate old fashioned baths. He sees quick movement out of the corner of his eye. A figure in pink hot pants disappears down some stone steps and he hears the clinking of bottles along with curses drift upwards. He realises the light will make him easy to see so reluctantly he moves back to his task, his eyes lingering for one more glimpse..... Realising he is close to completing his task, he gathers himself and moves purposefully - but not too purposefully, onwards. His steps falter as he hears a rising crescendo of catterwaulls mixed with expletives and donkey brayings stirring ever louder from behind him ! A white suited figure with jet black slicked hair, and a fatter belly than the gnome on the rockpile is riding the mangey donkey as fast as it's skinny little legs will carry it... thundering hooves makes him scamper to the side of the road as the figure on the back aims a wild blow with a broken guitar at him. He ducks and watches as the guitar sails over the fence and disappears with a crash. The white suited figure resumes his wild ride, the donkey's flanks heaving with the exertion, ribs buldging. At another lighted building he turns the donkey fully around, shouting at the top of his lungs.... "WANKERS" As he speeds back down the street, empty beer bottles and cans follow him vainly out of those lighted windows... THAT is the place ! He smiles. Accents both strange and familiar reach him, at last he knows where to go... he reaches into his pocket and takes out the piece of paper - his task is set. He is ready. As he approaches his journeys end, apprehension starts to rise. What if the sayings are true ? Will they accept him or turf him out ingloriously ? Will they just ignore him ? He begins to doubt...so he reaches for the paper again and is reassured. The pub - for that is what it must be - is a place of much noise and revelry, outside the the sizzling of sausage, steak and prawns waft from a nicely hot barbie. Another empty can sails through the air. A squeal from feminine lips follows the sound of a slap. He starts to relax. They are friendly after all. As he approaches the door, a drunken man staggers outside and moves to the side of the verandah. With his back turned he bends and starts to heave... Time to move inside. The hand grasps the paper. All sound stops as he walks over the threshold. Faces turn in his direction. Bottles in mid-swig pause...even the cockroaches stop scuttling. No sound but that from his hammering heart fills his ears. He looks down and tries to clear his throat. No sound comes out ! he tries again - NOTHING !! A hand reaches for the paper and takes it from his sweating hand. The man reads the one line of text, balls the paper and throws it into a bin without hitting the sides. He glares at the newcomer. Finally, he can breath again and the words form in his throat. He MUST do it to complete his quest. His lips move..... "I say, anyone want a game, then ?" the words die quickly in his suddenly dried throat. Nothing moves for seconds, they drag into a full minute. The assembled people break into wide grins, looking at each other. He starts to relax before the wall of noise hits him in a magnificent unified bellow... ******SOD OFF !****** He is stunned by the ferocity of sound and runs for his life back down the street, overtaking the donkey easily, who burdened by his his heavy load is down to a walk. The Hippy doesn't move from his bent position although the sheep back nervously to a corner of their pen. As he runs towards the edge of the wood, his breath escaping in ragged blasts from his seared lungs, he feels an urge to follow that strange way...to the wastelands and the dimly perceived campfire with the two figures - waiting. Thnakfully he plunges into the woods and safety. [ October 11, 2002, 09:15 AM: Message edited by: Noba ] Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Nidan1 Posted October 11, 2002 Share Posted October 11, 2002 Originally posted by Noba: A figure approaches ........ Your stilted prose makes me ill..send me a set up if you like. [ October 11, 2002, 09:53 AM: Message edited by: Nidan1 ] Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Noba Posted October 11, 2002 Share Posted October 11, 2002 Originally posted by Nidan1: Originally posted by Noba: </font><blockquote>quote:</font><hr /> A figure approaches ........ Your stilted prose makes me ill..send me a set up if you like.</font> Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Boo Radley Posted October 11, 2002 Share Posted October 11, 2002 Originally posted by Noba: ...he gathers himself and moves purposefully - but not too purposefully...Damn I like that. I like that a lot! Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Nidan1 Posted October 11, 2002 Share Posted October 11, 2002 An Ode to Noba: 'E lives "Down Unda", that we know, Not his fault..I'm sure. His attempts at prose are surely low, but Aussie English can inure. I'm not a poet, lets try this..... A figure hunches over the keyboard of his computer, trying to cobble together the words to respond to one Noba a person who inhabits the land "Down Under", a strange place of weirdly put together animals, human beings so arkane that they can "walk thru their own dreams", and another race of beings that were shunned by their own Motherland, but have some how managed to create such wonders as "Mad Max", Gigantic cans of Beer, and Paul Hogan. How does one communicate with a person who has managed to survive in such a place?... these are the thoughts that enter the hunched figures mind, as he tries to come to grips with the formation of his response. More difficult and thus more confusing, is the fact that their first encounter has taken place in an area called the Cesspool or the "Mutha Beautiful Thread" as some call it. A mythical land in cyberspace, where like minded and equally strange individuals meet to hurl invectives at one another, using ancient tongues, and play a computer game, which is rumored to be "The Greatest Computer Wargame of Recent History" They find solace in this place, no matter what part of the globe they call home, this is the enigma of the MBT. The hunched figure chastises himself for digressing from his original dilema... think of a response he says to himself, he has trouble putting the words into action, he agonizes.... from the back reaches of his sleep fogged brain, a response is forming, one that he feels is both appropriate and witty for the situation. He thinks out loud.. Ah Noba, and the rest of mental defectives that live here would surely appreciate the wit of this challenge, how could they not? He begins to strike the keyboard... to spell out the response, to make it a physical part of the strange, but somehow compelling cyber world of the Cesspool. "G'Day Mate, would ya send me a setup?" He sits back now in his comfortable computer chair , savoring the look of the words he has written, cozy in the knowledge that this challenge will surely pique the interest of his would be oppponent, and before he clicks the "Add Reply" button, he brings up his inbox... knowing a turn will pop in there, knowing that Noba could not possibly fault his wit. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Nestor Posted October 11, 2002 Share Posted October 11, 2002 Originally posted by Seanachai: Twaddle More twaddle Hey, Berli, you sod! Did you take Nestor to Squire? If not, you're a daft bugger, and no mistake. And still more twaddle Any thoughts on this Evil one? If you're in agreement with the Gnome's moment of clarity, perhaps you could just let me know what the hours are, whether health insurance is included and then Imp a contract over to me for signing. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Nestor Posted October 11, 2002 Share Posted October 11, 2002 Nidan1, a set-up would have winged its way to you already, but my computer sounds like it has a family of squirrels living in it and is kaput. As befits a possible Squire of the dark-side I am making arrangements to purloin a machine from work and will be with you shortly. In the meantime, buy a suitably sized fish and slap yourself with it until I'm up and running again. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Panzer Leader Posted October 11, 2002 Share Posted October 11, 2002 What is this, "Battle of the Half-wits?" Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Panzer Leader Posted October 11, 2002 Share Posted October 11, 2002 And why do their names always start with 'N'? Is this something like how hurricanes are named? Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Nidan1 Posted October 11, 2002 Share Posted October 11, 2002 Nestor A lame excuse, I would have believed it if you had said that your knickers were soiled and "Mummy wont let me out to play" In any event I wait, Im dealing with more worthy opponents at present anyway. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Nidan1 Posted October 11, 2002 Share Posted October 11, 2002 Originally posted by Panzer Leader: What is this, "Battle of the Half-wits?"Half a wit is better than none Panzy Leader If brains were dynamite...yahda, yahda... Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Nestor Posted October 11, 2002 Share Posted October 11, 2002 Originally posted by Panzer Leader: What is this, "Battle of the Half-wits?" And why do their names always start with 'N'? Is this something like how hurricanes are named?Palsied Leaker, we've talked about this. The sequence is: 1)Type the first piece of drivel that comes into your head. Don't post. 2)Take a breath whilst waiting a minute or two for those dots to be joined in your brain. 3)Type the 2nd stodgy diatribe. Don't post. Repeat ad infinitum. On 2nd thoughts, don't feel you have to breathe. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Malakovski Posted October 11, 2002 Share Posted October 11, 2002 Originally posted by Berlichtingen: </font><blockquote>quote:</font><hr />Originally posted by Seanachai: He's just nervous. You know how anxious the new ones are to fit in and make their mark.If he wants to make his mark, have him piss on Sir Soundlikeasneeze's leg. That should do the trick</font> Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Boo Radley Posted October 11, 2002 Share Posted October 11, 2002 Originally posted by Nidan1: </font><blockquote>quote:</font><hr />Originally posted by Panzer Leader: What is this, "Battle of the Half-wits?"Half a wit is better than none Panzy Leader If brains were dynamite...yahda, yahda...</font> Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Malakovski Posted October 11, 2002 Share Posted October 11, 2002 Originally posted by Boo_Radley: </font><blockquote>quote:</font><hr />Originally posted by Malakovski: Language is a versatile garment. I wear it as fits my whim. And with a whim as large as yours, you'll need language the size and shape of a mumu. (rimshot)</font> Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Boo Radley Posted October 11, 2002 Share Posted October 11, 2002 Originally posted by Malakovski: My whim is large and manly, wrapped in cloth of gold.I didn't know they made a Sigfried & Roy line of Depends®. Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Panzer Leader Posted October 11, 2002 Share Posted October 11, 2002 Originally posted by Boo_Radley: </font><blockquote>quote:</font><hr />Originally posted by Malakovski: My whim is large and manly, wrapped in cloth of gold.I didn't know they made a Sigfried & Roy line of Depends®.</font> Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
Joe Shaw Posted October 11, 2002 Share Posted October 11, 2002 Papa Khann, having completed five CessPool games and his appointed (if VERY minimal) Squires Challenge, is hereby appointed to the ranks of Knights of the CessPool. {Sir Joe begins to tap Papa Khann on the shoulder with the Sword Of The Shavian House ... appears to think twice ... actually readjusts his grip and begins a windup for a mighty blow that, if landed, would remove Papa Khann's head from his shoulders ... reconsiders, sighs, and gently taps his Squire on the shoulder Arise Sir Papa Khann ... now get your crap out MY castle ... LEAVING BEHIND, OF COURSE, EVERYTHING THAT'S NOT YOURS! Joe [ October 11, 2002, 01:15 PM: Message edited by: Joe Shaw ] Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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