The Peng Challenge Thread. Accept no Substitutes!

[Seanachai]

You see lads, he himself admits that he is LESS than an Olde One ... although he misplaced the comma. Myself I'd have written it as ...

By an Olde One ... no ... less.

But we can't expect proper sentence construction from dalem ... we can hardly expect sentience from him.

Joe

Joe, this might be a revisionist argument. My argument above is better.

Although the Justicar does make an extremely good argument about grammar, punctuation and syntax in the textual representation of language. One which is lost on most young people today, despite an ever greater usage of 'texting'. Witness the always amusing book 'Eats, Shoots and Leaves'.

I've just been off the phone with Dalem, in which he and I went more thoroughly over the ground that I'd trodden with Berli earlier today. I think it was morning, or something like it. Berli is not bound to time the way the rest of us are, and it shows in his use of the telephone. If we move to a system where an electronic device can be made to shout out 'get up, you evil little sod, I want to talk to you', then Berli might abandon the telephone all together in favour of digital communication.

Anyways, we talked at some length about the change that we will probably see in our lifetime (albeit for most of us something we watch as we slip away into maundering old age), of a shift in the current paradigm regarding text.

Even very old people like myself, and extremely old (and largely useless) people like the Justicar, have witnessed a huge shift in the paradigm of our age from the 'written' word, to the 'typed' word, and now we are moving into an age of the 'texted' word, with hardware driving our use of written language ever faster and in newer directions.

I believe it was the biologist and philosopher Lewis Thomas in his book 'Lives of a Cell', that makes the observation that social creatures create something larger than themselves that defines them, that they in fact cannot even 'see', and he felt that for humanity it was not a hive, nor an anthill, but 'language'. And that each iteration of mankind has taken this creation and worked upon it, even as bees build a hive or ants tunnel and build their nest, and made of it something whose totality they function within, but cannot completely perceive.

We have created language, and it now drives every aspect of our lives. And this creation has made possible our technology, and that technology is now feeding back into the way we use language, and driving the changes in the paradigm. From the invention of cuneiform, to alphabets, to standardized dictionaries, to proper grammar, we build the hill higher, and make it more all-encompassing and powerful.

And now we live in an age in which we've watched technology take over our use of language and drive it in ever more convoluted paths, from hand-written script, to one-handed texting by teenagers who operate within the bounds of the most impressive construction of human society, about which they know very little and understand even less, although it dominates their lives.

We live within a society for which 'text' is the over-riding means of communication, and yet societies as a whole, even within the educated (or more correctly, especially within the more educated) portions of the globe, the society is barely literate.

We are at a point where it is inconceivable to function without the written word. And yet as a society we're damn near reduced to scrawling out symbols on the ground with a stick, despite the fact that we're using cell phones and computers and such to do the scratching.

What's next for Weird Betty, eh?

Of course, in my conversations with Dalem and Berli, although it was every bit as erudite and thoughtful, there was a lot more swearing, and disturbing information about things like 'fleshlights' (which concept I do not care to revisit, except to say 'Behold, the Goddess of Empathy!'), and some intense discussions regarding 'why women get mad at you', and drinking and cigar smoking, and pissing while on the phone, and stuff.

But otherwise it was just like like gathering at the Parthenon in ancient Greece to discuss deep and weighty issues. But without the bed sheet clothing or anyone being into young boys, and without all that abstemious stuff about watering down your wine so that you weren't mistaken for a Macedonian because you drank too much.

We were all for the Macedonians. The Macedonians drank like Australians. Alexander the Great was a Macedonian, and he conquered a huge chunk of the Known World. And he was tutored by Aristotle. But he decided to be 'too Greek', and was into young boys.

We discussed deep philosophical questions as though we were drunken Macedonians who were tutored by renowned scholars like Aristotle, but we avoided the whole 'young boys' thing.

In other words, we were a 'credit to Western Civilization'. Not like the Australians. They were just drunk.

[dalem]

You're Tearing Me Apart Lisa!

[dalem]

Language. Is a virus.

[Seanachai]

Comin' up.

Ahem.

Seanachai's Round and He's Drunk and He's Stout

Ohhh Seanachai's round and he's drunk and he's stout

But he would not send the setup out

He'd caper and prance and lurch about

he'd guzzle the booze and sniff the cooze

And though his opponent would scream and shout

He simply would not send the setup out

And so his piles they sent him reeling

Empty bottles, rotten feelings

Wasted dreams, hopping fleas

Nightmares he could not appease

They filled his days they filled his nights

He danced alone and soiled his tights

With dirty shirts and aching bones

Sobbing rentals of Home Alone

Loose sh!ts, puce sh!ts, wormy meal

Visions of bloody cold cold steel

Fevered thrusts of withered loins

Trumpeting arse and hunted coins

Calls that queried all unanswered

Appointments missed with fevered rancor

The setup waited on down the ages

It birthed excuses they took up pages

Terrain unpicked, forces blank

Attack or Probe, perhaps a tank

Italy Desert Africa

Morale bonus or a rare Puma

Hills for sure or maybe flat

Mechanized he'd go for that

Random slots, or player pick

(A bicycle seat, sniff it quick)

Allied Axis Canuck or Pole

Eschew the Brits, they're on the dole

At last the setup so delayed

The fear was that he might be laid

All the neighbors called the cops

Cuz he ne'er thought to toss the slops

And finally Seanachai round drunk and stout

Said "Okay, I'll send the setup out"

But then of course it was too late

The setup delay had garnered hate

From St. Paul to the sewer grate

And there with the setup that he did hate

Poor Seanachai met an awful fate

That I cannot right now relate

Because the chance is much too late

But players remember Seanachai's bout

And always send the setup out

We're House Persiflage, good night!

I think it was very good. I think it will meet the Gnomes approval.

Hmm, hmm. For Dalem, this was almost 'Homeric'. It rhymed, it scanned fairly well, it made sense.

If he can keep this sort of thing up, we might relent from the whole 'Dalem is not to versify, for ANY reason' thing.

One of his best efforts.

If I am to be mocked (and as we all know, I am to be mocked, because it shows that you resent the heights I have achieved, and look down upon you from), then I prefer to be mocked with decent, solid versification like Dalem has recently managed.

Dalem, that was a noble effort. One of your best.

Because of my association with Small Friends, I've learned the importance of 'positive reinforcement'. With Dalem as with 4 year olds like Smaller Nora (who is Dalem's favourite, because she's quite mad), it is important to praise them for things like 'not soiling themselves'.

[Seanachai]

Language. Is a virus.

Dalem. Is a drunkard.

[Seanachai]

You're Tearing Me Apart Lisa!

And yet, I thought she looked quite buuteefal today...

[Michael Emrys]

One of his best efforts.

Which is to say, slightly more entertaining than what one in desperation reads off the back of a box of Cheerios.

Very well then. This time we will spare the testicle crushers and stop at the bamboo splinters driven under the fingernails.

Never let it be said that I am not a merciful God.

Michael

[Michael Emrys]

Dalem. Is a drunkard.

You. Are redundant.

Michael

[Michael Emrys]

Anyways, we talked at some length about the change that we will probably see in our lifetime (albeit for most of us something we watch as we slip away into maundering old age), of a shift in the current paradigm regarding text.

And et cetera. Snipped for length.

Congratulations, Seanachai old boy. That was one of your more lucid presentations. Although it did tend to tail off towards the end, I won't hold that against you too much. I know how hard it can be to stay focussed on one train of thought while writing on the web. Especially when that fourth drink starts to take effect. Never mind the eighth or ninth.

Pip, pip, cheerio, and all that rot. Your devoted admirer,

God

[Joe Shaw]

And et cetera. Snipped for length.

Congratulations, Seanachai old boy. That was one of your more lucid presentations. Although it did tend to tail off towards the end, I won't hold that against you too much. I know how hard it can be to stay focussed on one train of thought while writing on the web. Especially when that fourth drink starts to take effect. Never mind the eighth or ninth.

Pip, pip, cheerio, and all that rot. Your devoted admirer,

God

It was wasn't it ... more lucid than normal I mean.

It almost started to make some sense before he veered off into the oncoming traffic lane for a bit and almost made a thingy reference. For a moment I wondered if dalem hadn't been at his computer again ... but then I realized that, even under the best of circumstances, dalem wouldn't even come close to lucid.

There are telltale signs, however, that Seanachai wasn't firing on all cylinders ... note that he actually said ...

... extremely old (and largely useless) people like the Justicar ...

Clearly he wasn't thinking properly at that point.

Joe

[Michael Emrys]

Quote:

"... extremely old (and largely useless) people like the Justicar ..."

Clearly he wasn't thinking properly at that point.

Let the record show that the witness has lapsed into delusion once again and the previous testimony which he was attempting to rebut stands.

Michael

[Boo Radley]

If I am to be mocked (and as we all know, I am to be mocked, because it shows that you resent the heights I have achieved, and look down upon you from),

May we also mock you for ending a sentence with a preposition?

[Noba]

May we also mock you for ending a sentence with a preposition?

Preposition. Isn't that what the scenario designer does with your troops ?

Noba.

[Stuka]

Preposition, it's what Boo does when crawling the curbs late at night in the seedier parts of town.

[Boo Radley]

Well, as both Stuka and Noba are both Oddstralyuns, it should come as no surprise that they have difficulties with English.

[Michael Emrys]

Well, as both Stuka and Noba are both Oddstralyuns, it should come as no surprise that they have difficulties with English.

Yeah, taking off their shoes and socks is no help with that.

Michael

[Seanachai]

What the hell is the point of the 'multi-quote this message' button? Bloody thing doesn't seem to do anything...

Eureka! I have it!

Of course now the problem is, I can't make it let go...

[Seanachai]

May we also mock you for ending a sentence with a preposition?

No. When I choose to violate the rules of grammar and language, it's because I am the Bard of the Peng Challenge Thread who has chosen to do so, rather than because jumping up and down and grunting makes more sense than reaching for a style manual (as you undoubtedly had to do), like you lot of apes are reduced to.

Language is like music, Boo. In the hands of the Australians, say, it's a bawdy pub ballad. In the hands of the Justicar, it's like Gregorian chants. From you, it's like a folk song.

When it flows from me, Boo, it's like the 'Ode to Joy'.

[OGSF]

ODE TO A HAGGIS

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face,

Great Chieftan o’ the Puddin-race!

Aboon them a’ ye tak your place,

Painch, tripe, or thairm:

Weel are ye wordy of a grace

As lang’s my arm

The groaning trencher there ye fill,

Your hurdies like a distant hill,

You pin wad help to mend a mill

In time o’need

While thro’ your pores the dews distil

Like amber bead

His knife see Rustic-labour dight,

An’ cut you up wi’ ready slight,

Trenching your gushing entrails bright

Like onie ditch;

And then, O what a glorious sight,

Warm-reeking, rich!

Then, horn for horn they stretch an’ strive,

Deil tak the hindmost, on they drive,

Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve

Are bent like drums;

Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive

Bethankit hums

Is there that owre his French ragout,

Or olio that wad staw a sow,

Or fricassee wad mak her spew

Wi’ perfect sconner,

Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view

On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him owre his trash,

As feckless as a wither’d rash

His spindle-shank a guid whip-lash,

His nieve a nit;

Thro’ bluidy flood or field to dash,

O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,

The trembling earth resounds his tread,

Clap in his walie nieve a blade,

He’ll mak it whissle;

An’ legs, an’ arms an’ heads will sned,

Like taps o’ thrissle

Ye pow’rs wha mak mankind your care,

An’ dish them out their bill o’fare,

Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware

That jaups in luggies;

But, if ye wish her gratefu’ pray’r,

Gie her a Haggis!

[Seanachai]

Language is like music, Boo.

When it flows from me, Boo, it's like the 'Ode to Joy'.

Did that sound arrogant? Really, did it?

Because it was meant to sound arrogant.

Posting here always keeps me on my toes, whether it's posturing, posing, denying, damning or simply trying to make a bit of sense while pissing about.

Every day that I come here, I try to post.

There's been big amounts of time lately when I didn't post, because I'd nothing to give. I don't like to 'phone it in'.

There will be a day when I will not be posting here anymore. There will be a day when the sun will rise, the sun will set. There will be a day when even the stupidest m*therf*cker on the planet will come here and post, and I will not be there to shake my head, and go to the kitchen for more ice. A day when Small Friends ask their Mom and Dad why Grandma Steve hasn't been to visit for so long, and when he will be coming over again.

There will be a day when Sam the Dog will go into the guest room at Dalem's house, and look at the futon couch, wag his tail, and whine, because it is empty.

There will be a day, my little lads, when I am gone.

Probably, when all this happens, I will be f*cking dead. But with any luck at all, it will be because I'm in a stolen armoured car, driving for Cleveland, shouting "Wild Card, Bitches!"

But, if it's 'the other thing' (you know, 'death'), I'd like you all to say of me, in the grand style of the epitaph of Lord Buckley: 'He stomped upon the terra', that Seanachai: Pissed upon them all from a great height.

Because I do. When I am gone, go out on any clear, cool night, when the stars burn like diamonds enough to actually shine through the fecking light pollution of the sky within 100 miles of an urban area, and the breeze barely stirs stirs the leaves, and turn your faces upwards. Feel that on your cheeks, my little lads?

That's not dew, you feckers. That's me.

[OGSF]

Ah'd like tae post an Ode tae a feckin' git Bastarrrd tha I jus' wrote...

OOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooooooooooccchhhhhhhhhh!

Seanachai as a feckin' git bastarrrrd!

Tha's all Ah've go' jus' noo.

[Joe Shaw]

As if you'd go outside for anything other than booze ... and there ain't no booze in either heaven or hell.

Valhalla, of course ... is a different story but there you'd be busy hauling legs o'lamb for the Gawds and wouldn't have time to go outside. In fact you'd be fortunate to avoid the cuffs and kicks of Loki (he's bad that way you know, kinda like Joe Pesci in Goodfellas) ... dance Seanachai, dance ...

So all in all I think we're pretty safe.

Joe

[Stuka]

'Ode to Joy'.

I knew a girl called Joy once......you wouldn't want to Ode her though......

[Seanachai]

Ah'd like tae post an Ode tae a feckin' git Bastarrrd tha I jus' wrote...

OOOOOOOOOOOooooooooooooooooooooooooooccchhhhhhhhhh!

Seanachai as a feckin' git bastarrrrd!

Tha's all Ah've go' jus' noo.

You come over here and say that, you Scots/Aussie feck! I'll reach right up your arse and pull out the wobbly bit that even lets you do poetry, you pillock.

You ever try and do poetry against me again, you bastard, and I'll turn you into slurry, and I'll use the small bones to make necklaces for my Small Friends, you feck.

That I should live so long, to have a putative f*cking Scotsman attempt poetry against me!

IS THAT WHAT YOU WANT, OGSF?! DO YOU WANT TO MATCH ME, POETRY TO POETRY?!

DO YOU WANT TO HAVE A GO, YOU SCOTS GIT?!

[Seanachai]

I knew a girl called Joy once......you wouldn't want to Ode her though......

And no girl that ever knew you knew joy, you bugger. Now be quiet, we're all after talking about grown-up stuff.