Spiderdrake posted:

The Motherfucking Flash
originally posted by me on some horrible not SA forum

Now, I don't know how many of you dogs of the scurviest sea read comics, but I do a big pile of comics. One thing that blows my mind is how completely insane the powers in the DC universe are. Look at Superman. This guy has more powers than French restaurants have ways to say "your taste in wine is atrocious". He has powers to do with every part of his body and then some. He forgets powers sometimes. He can shoot heat rays out of his eyes, frost breath from his mouth and red son radiation from his rear end. He's that sort of crazy dude. All because he absorbs solar radiation.

Look at Batman. His power? The anti-power. Sure, he should be some tame, kung fun master of not much, but instead he's the hottest poo poo to ever poo poo on a plate. You got a power? He'll find your weakness and give you seizures or heart attacks. He'll light you on fire when you're sleeping or make you recharge your green lantern ring in the power outlet. Ten thousand volts of gently caress you batman. That's Batman.

But the loving Flash, my god, my loving GOD, this man has the greatest powers of all. If Superman's powers are being sucked off by twin super models and batman coming home to discover your wife is not only bisexual but has two friends she wants you to 'get in on' then the Flash is an orgy with a thousand women who also want to pay your World of Warcraft billing. And click the mouse for you. This man is just that loving hot. They have to power him down in the comics half the time just to keep him from doing everyone else's job.

Ok first off, he can travel at lightspeed. Mother gently caress! Not only does he travel at lightspeed, but time slows down for him. So he feels like he's having a casual jog or reading the paper, meanwhile, his feet are moving so fast you can hear him coming from Montana while he's already gotten to Arizona. That's loving fast. But wait! The ability to move at Lightspeed just isn't loving enough!

I know! Christ this guy can punch you so many times in a second you've been hit five times in the cock and two times everywhere else. You think you're about to fight the Flash and then it hits you, for the last split second he's beaned your beanbags with more blows than you had sperm. But no, there's more!

The Flash can also vibrate through walls. Now last I heard, you can not move so fast you can vibrate through walls, so what actually happens is the Flash is so fast he can pick and choose the movement of his individual molecules and move them through other solid objects, phasing through solid matter like it ain't no thing. I mean you think a guy who runs at lightspeed would run into poo poo but no, the Flash just goes right through them. To top that with a cherry and some whipped cream (which the Flash made in like a millisecond, fucker) he can selectively choose to cause objects to be "okay" afterwards or loving EXPLODE. That's right. He can run through you and make you blow up by transfering kinetic energy into you. Like Jesus. IT's bad enough you can't hit this guy, but he doesn't even have to punch you. Now your testicles have exploded and you're thinking you're about to hit him. Jesus? Just give it up. He's the loving Flash.

Now imagine that somehow there's someone who can get around the Flash blowing your balls up secret ninja technique. Ok. He can also control the flow of energy between objects. This power makes no sense but basically he can throw a rock at you, and you think it's going slow and then he's like WHOOHOOO WIZARDLY FLASH POWERS and bam it's going at lightspeed. So he can throw seven million rocks at you in a second then make them all goes different speeds thus striking your nads with seven million rocks one after the other.

But wait! There's more! He can also take energy from the very power of speed and make clothes out of it. Yes. Flash makes his pants out of GOES FAST. The man is so fast he can make Flash pants that GOES FAST go right into. I don't even start to understand the physics of that but basically SPEED == REALLY TIGHT UNDERWEAR AND COOL LIGHTNING THINGIES OVER THE EAR. You would think this is the end of it but ok let's say Flash is fighting Superman and poo poo he's going to lose and gently caress how is Superman THIS loving strong? I don't know he must be Superman fused with Batman into some sort of guy with tons of plans on how to punch you far harder than anyone else ok to end it off the Flash can GO BACK OR FORWARD IN TIME ON COMMAND.

How do you beat this dude? You're thinking you're hashing him good, laying down the beatdown, missing your balls and suddenly BAM YOUR MOM FELL DOWN THE STAIRS TWENTY YEARS AGO and there's a dent in your forehead and Superman not thunk so gud no more. Actually she didn't fall down the stairs the Flash put speed into them so they fell up her! gently caress you Flash! You moved the stairs to Soviet loving russia! RUSH-A! Bitch.

Oh, and lastly his greatest power is he isn't fast in bed. He takes it slow and gets all the ladies with his superpowers then actually satisfies them in the sack. Who the Hell is this guy? You'd think he could AT LEAST be a premature ejaculator since his penis is moving at lightspeed but NOOOO he's even good in bed.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why Wolverine sucks cock and should go die in a freak greasefire.

Nipple Bandit posted:

Dear Nintendo:
YOUR COCKSUCKING PRODUCT HAS REDUCED ME TO A GIBBERING MAN-APE WHOSE ONLY RESORT TO DEALING WITH THE ALMIGHTY loving GRIEF IT'S BESTOWED UPON ME IS TO SCREAM AND HURT MYSELF.

Seriously, I am jumping up and down and throwing my poo poo in handfuls at the loving television in some impotent primal effort to get the thing to work. I have been sitting here trying to enjoy your product - YOUR PRODUCT, YOUR GAME, YOUR CONTRACT BETWEEN DEVELOPER AND CONSUMER THAT THE CONSUMER WILL ENJOY YOUR PRODUCT - but instead the drat thing's been crawling out of the console and taking warm shits in my gaping mouth. Swear to god, you should have just added a little door to the console through which a hand pops out and flips me off, because I am insulted that your QA or testers or whatever brainless shitstove three genes short of a monkey FAGNUT signs your games through thought that a person with more than a single loving digit IQ could enjoy Story Mode Chapter 7. INSULTED.

WORK WITH ME HERE: The goal's simple enough! Come in first! Hey, that's fine, it's just like playing the grand loving prix; not a problem! Only deal is your cross-eyed team of tongue-slapping wunderkind decided to give the game every single loving advantage possible TO THE GAME rather than me.

How in the gently caress does Black Shadow - whose car is the heaviest and lamest piece of poo poo next to the Crazy Bear - suddenly become SO loving GOOD that he can stay in first without using a drop of boost? Huh!? Why!? You never see this shithead anywhere near the top loving 20 in a normal race. BUT HO HO HO THIS TIME HE'S MEGA-COCK, THE FASTEST human being IN THE WORLD. 1.21 GIGAWATTS MARTY, LET'S GO BACK TO THE loving FUTURE.

But it's not just Black Shadow with the magical powers, it's the entire loving lineup of racers! THEY'RE ALL FASTER THAN YOU. AND DON'T REQUIRE ANY BOOST.

But but but I of course, am still driving some piece of poo poo hamster-powered jalopy who guzzles it's entire energy bar in no less than four loving boosts! Add to this the entire course just got shitted on by some retarded space tiki volacano god and you've got a course full of hazards that'll drain at least 1/4 of your energy bar JUST BECAUSE IT CAN. WHOOPIE.

HURRR, you say. THAT'S JUST THE CHALLENGE. IT'S NOT SUPPOSED TO BE EASY. Well gently caress that noise, you lopsided frankenfaced fuckfurter.

Tell me, please, why does the GAME have to win? Huh? What happens when the game wins and I lose? Is there some huge loving kegger waiting for it when it gets done? Is there money involved? Or perhaps the motives are more sinister. Maybe the game's family is being held hostage by another game and that game has it's cock in F-Zero's wife's mouth and he's holding a cell phone up to her and F-Zero can hear her pained moans and cries for help and the rear end in a top hat game then says, "You beat that cock-sucking human, or I'll blow her brains out." I COULD UNDERSTAND THAT. I CAN BE SYMPATHETIC.

It's not any fun if I can't win, you faggots. I want to move on. I want to unlock whatever piece of poo poo clown car you have hidden away from me so I can start racing and get pissed off with that too. When your game prevents me from fully enjoying the product I have bought you have failed in your loving mission to deliver a game. You lose! You break the contract! You contract the gay and loving DIE DIE DIE.

WET BUTT posted:

was i picked on in middle school? hmm let me think
* Weighed 750 pounds
* Parents were both Charles Manson (long story)
* Wore a bath robe to school every day
* Had the word "homo" instead of a mouth

Triticum Guzzler posted:

There's a lot of hosed up and weird people, on this comedy forum website, who do not ever post jokes, do not enjoy jokes or indeed even laughing, and have coined a derogatory term for people who make jokes. They're all missionaries drawn here by the allure of the fertile lands of videos of a severely asthmatic man playing Megaman games, and interesting philosophical quandries posted by the fake PTSD guy about the nature of doors and windows in Dungeons and Dragons. They are wise men here to educate a savage, uneducated, indigenous sort. It is a sonorous, musical form of education; a greasy collective amasses on the front line of the battle against social injustice, the video game subforum on a message board that has a drop down menu that makes light of the holocaust on every single page, and sings a shrill harmony that permeates the very aether, making my pets feel unsafe, when a video game muscle man calls Catwoman a bitch. They have picked their battles well, and I note from my foxhole that I am running out of ammunition, chiefly in the form of the increasingly finite number of ways I can frame this absurd situation with the English language. I clench my fists and yell "anime" towards an uncaring, absent God, and swear solemnly to press my thumbs into Chocolate America's eyeballs until he is blinded, to directly emasculate sporting figures, to beat the poo poo out of tumblr users with baseball bats, and to quietly appreciate what Waylon Smithers being gay means to me.

MoonwalkInvincible posted:

"They don't call me Pork Lift for nothing," he said, raising Ozma into position against the wall.

quote:

EVERY MORNING I WAKE UP AND OPEN PALM SLAM A VHS INTO THE SLOT. IT'S CHRONICLES OF RIDDICK AND RIGHT THEN AND THERE I START DOING THE MOVES ALONGSIDE WITH THE MAIN CHARACTER, RIDDICK. I DO EVERY MOVE AND I DO EVERY MOVE HARD. MAKIN WHOOSHING SOUNDS WHEN I SLAM DOWN SOME NECRO BASTARDS OR EVEN WHEN I MESS UP TECHNIQUE. NOT MANY CAN SAY THEY ESCAPED THE GALAXYS MOST DANGEROUS PRISON. I CAN. I SAY IT AND I SAY IT OUTLOUD EVERYDAY TO PEOPLE IN MY COLLEGE CLASS AND ALL THEY DO IS PROVE PEOPLE IN COLLEGE CLASS CAN STILL BE IMMATURE JEKRS. AND IVE LEARNED ALL THE LINES AND IVE LEARNED HOW TO MAKE MYSELF AND MY APARTMENT LESS LONELY BY SHOUTING EM ALL. 2 HOURS INCLUDING WIND DOWN EVERY MORNIng

Dacap posted:

Ninja Turtles comes out around the same time too, doesn't it? Surprised we haven't seen anything from that yet. I wonder if we'll see a first look at the Turtles soon.

bobkatt013 posted:

Whats the point as Shredder died?

Endless Mike posted:

No, just his knees. Not that it matters, since the Turtles haven't paid their dues so he won't put them over., even though he's just in it for the money.

bobkatt013 posted:

Shredder did die

http://www.washingtonpost.com/lifes...ca3b_story.html

Lobok posted:

quote:

OP: "Help! HELP! I'm stuck in a well!!!"
Goons1-4: "Climb! Climb up and take our hands!"
OP: "I'm thinking I should dig... should I dig?"
Goon5: "NO! I was trapped in a well, and digging is a bad idea! Climb out!"
Goons6-8: "Were lowering ropes! Take hold of a rope!"
Goon9: "I've even tied a harness to the end of this one!"
OP: "I can feel the ropes, but I don't want to hold onto them... should I dig?"
Goon10: "No! If you dig, you'll hit water, and then you'll be proper hosed. I should know, I almost drowned."
OP: "I dug a little bit just now, and I haven't hit water. I'm gonna keep digging..."
Goons11-18: "No! Climb! Climb out!"
OP: "Guys, I'm seriously stuck in this well! Help! HELP!!!"
Goon19: "I was trapped in a well once. It took me two years, but I managed to build a climbing machine that pulled me to safety out of a well bucket and a pocket watch. I'm dropping the blueprints, extra buckets, and an assortment of pocket watches."
Goon20: "I've engineered a jet-pack that will rocket you to safety. Stay where you are and we'll lower it down!""
"OP: "Thanks for your help, guys. I'm gonna keep digging. I'll find the Mines of Moria and I'll just walk to the surface."
**Goons1-20 piss in the well**
Goon21: "Guys, seriously... stop peeing in the well.""

Booblord Zagats posted:

Man the gently caress up and stretch that midget cooch out like an NBA player in a cheap Vietnamese suit. You are a proud member of a prestigious military tradition and if you don't wreck that pubic mound like it's the U-Boat pens at Kiel then you might as well just pack it up, go to Oregon, grow a handle bar mustache and buy a unicycle like the limp-dicked disappointment on legs that you are. This isn't about your erection, its about making goddamed history you loving ninny. Now stand up, give the world your war cry and make the teensy vulva make the same noises you'd head running through a puddle in shower shoes.

quote:

12:05 PM eastern standard time, the Muslims have vanished.

Check for yourself if you don’t believe me. Where have they gone to?

There is speculation, of course. Scientists mention a cosmic storm that passed the Earth on January 20. A man says they are all in caves. Certain groups lament a faulty Rapture. A woman says he has taken their power and absorbed it into himself. She means Barack Obama. I doubt it, but he does seem somehow taller. The ground rumbles at times. The breaking news says WASHINGTON DC, with red concentric circles. I’m uneasy, but what can we do? Terror is defeated and if Obama were a Muslim, he’d be just as gone as them. There’s no cause for alarm.

Within months, Barack Obama has declared a war on vague unease. It’s a good idea, because frankly we could all use some peace of mind. Approval rating is higher than ever now that the Muslims had left, but I don’t think we are happy yet. His eyes are shining sometimes, as a deer’s eyes shine in a flashlight beam. Small fissures criss-cross the pavement. Trees are swaying, but the breeze is gone. Something is changing in our world.


Aeroplanes don’t exist anymore. Scientists explain that the density of the air is too low to support their wings. Then how do we breathe?! We should have died by now, but I think we are evolving. Our bodies haven’t changed, but the atmosphere..

One man says it was the rapture after all, and we have since entered the Kingdom of God. Barack is now the size of an oak tree. He sleeps outside since the rains have ceased, and his skin is thick to bullets. Now he wanders through he countryside impassively. He ignores a rural photo-op. He studies a leaf for twenty days. Only a fool would call this Heaven.

Satellites fall to earth like rain used to. No friction burns them away, so we trudge past countless flecks of solar panel and ribbons of golden cloth. It’s a silent car crash every few hours, though cars themselves no longer run. No oxygen remains to ignite their fuel. Obama strides across the landscape, taller than the Freedom Tower. We’ve given up on assassination; all men are immortal now, and guns no longer fire.

I’m starting to wish the Muslims were back.

We found them with a telescope. Images of a colony on the right side of the moon. See the parts that jut from the lower right? I think they’re mosques. Soon they are visible to the naked eye, but how? Their cities are enormous. We watch them as they live and die. They have our former atmosphere; the moon is fringed with blue. “Look at how they wield their guns,” writes a man. “I always said he’d take our guns away.” They eat and sleep like we once did, building worthless ziggurats. We have everything we wanted, but oh how we envy their strife!

It’s long been clear that Obama brought this uncomfortable perfection upon us, but I can’t bring myself to blame him for it. He’s reminded us all of how our lives had been discarded out of fear. I know now why he grows each day. In time, when we are ready he will reach out into space. He will raise us up in his great hand, to this new Earth that gleams like a frozen star. And if Obama does not carry us, we can climb…

quote:

ASSAULTED BY A TURKEY IN SUBURBIA

Now I am a pretty calm guy and not many things would cause me to support the mass slaying of an entire species but to this day I have a bit of satisfaction every time I eat a turkey sandwich.

I was working at Just Pizza, a franchise of pizzerias in the Buffalo region as a delivery guy. When we receive our order we get slip with the address, the order, the price, and if needed any extra information. I pick up my route and start the deliveries as normal. On my last delivery before I head back to the shop I notice the slip has "Beware of the Turkey" written on it. Odd.

I pull up to the house and walk up the driveway. As I approach a very nervous looking woman meets me at the porch and ushers me into the screened awning and pays for the order while looking around. She obviously wasn't kidding when she wanted to avoid said turkey. "So you see the Turkey?" she asks. I kind of grinned and said no. I wasn't sure if she was kidding or crazy. She smiles, tips me (quite well) and enters the house. I turn around and head back to my car.

Standing there near the hood of my car with the gaze of a gunfighter at high noon was Mr. Turkey. I don't know exactly what I did to insult this turkey but he looked at me like I was the six fingered man in The Princess Bride. I tried to strafe calmly towards the driver door while trying not to excite the turkey. As I got closer he let out a turkey war cry and charged after me. I ran in a tight circle around my car and dove into the passenger side door and slammed it shut. As he reached the door he unleashed a flurry of pecks at the glass and paint of my car. As soon as a could I hopped into the driver seat and gunned it out of the driveway. "poo poo, that was crazy!" I thought to myself under the impression the ordeal was over.

Red light. I was stuck in traffic not 20 yards away from the house and Mr. Turkey had chased me down the road. Imagine the confusion of the other cars trapped along with me as this deranged bird was jumping and pecking all over my car. Shortly after I had stopped an old woman pulled up behind me and managed to incite the rage of the turkey. He turned and jumped on her hood. I swear she must have shat her pants because she drove around me and blew the stop light with the turkey on the hood of her car. She hit a bump in the road as she flew through the intersection and the turkey got tossed into oncoming traffic. The unfortunate driver who was about to cross the intersection slammed on his breaks nearly causing a pile-up. Se now we're all here at a 4-way intersection with a lunatic game bird attacking any car that tries to pass. This is also quite a busy road with several gas stations and beverage stores and whatnot. People who happen to lack the protection of cars are running inside shops and watching from the outside.

Green light. I brave the turkey and drive quickly through the intersection as soon as Mr. Turkey casts his gaze on some unfortunate couple in a convertible. All I can see in my rear view mirror is a flurry of feathers and a man punching in the air.

gently caress that turkey.

nig nog trying to get a hand beezy

quote:

HEGEL SMOKE A J posted:
Socrates was convinced Achilles and Patrocles were doin' it even though it's nowhere in the text as written of the Iliad; how about that, smart guy?
Deceitful Penguin posted:
I, too, think people who ship should be forced to drink poison.

IronCastKnight posted:

...all I wanted was a cheap comfortable car that I could drive slowly to and fro work and otherwise not give a single poo poo about, for I was one of those rare men who hated cars, hated driving, and had about as much interest in the mechanical functionings of automobiles as a gay lion has in a vegetable shaped like a horse vagina.

quote:

I was perusing My Documents the other day, looking specifically for a paper I did a semester ago. As usual, I found a graveyard of half-conceived ideas, stories I'd forgotten about, successful papers, failed papers, mediocre papers, and child pornography. No, wait, scratch that last part. However, while I was skimming through the bullshit, I noticed one file labeled simply "joshdig."

This confused me. What the gently caress was this? It sure didn't sound like a paper, and it sure didn't sound like a good name for a half-finished story.

My confusion was increased tenfold when I opened the file and began to read.

I have to explain what I think are the groggy circumstances of this composition. If memory serves (maybe?), I wrote this paper sometime around Christmas last year when I came down with a diabolical case of walking pnemonia. The dubious campus doctors prescribed several things that were supposed to fix it and didn't work, some things I don't think were meant for pnemonia but did work, and then finally something that worked. For example, they prescribed cough syrup with codine at first, and then amped it up to cough syrup with vicoden later.

gently caress if I've ever taken such drugs before. I had heard of them, of course, and had even had friends who mixed them with alcohol and even marijuana, but I wasn't willing to take a trip that might wind up with me losing every possible cavity's virginity I had, depending on how hard the trip was. I guess I'm just not hardcore.

I really don't remember much about how well the drugs worked, because those days are nothing but a mire of suffering and pain to me. Fundamentally, I don't know if they fixed anything, or if they were even prescribed for something.

I vaguely remember starting this paper. I think this was the first time I took the vicoden cough syrup, and I'm basing this on how the thing seems moderately plausible at first, and then degenerates into a stream of consciousness ride of utter madness and lunacy. Apparently I thought the idea of "burying" and "digging" as a hobby was downright hilarious. To be honest, isn't vicoden a sedative, so I should've been asleep by the end, and not a chimp with down syndrome?

Of course, maybe I just went literally insane for a while, and now I'm just blaming it on the drugs. Or maybe I was just plain drunk.

For the record, I wrote this when I was still in LAC, and I didn't get kicked out, I just stopped showing up. I only know Josh as a vague acquaintance, and haven't seen him in close to a year. He probably doesn't remember my name. I think he's an engineer or something, and he wouldn't even have anything to do with LAC, much less volunteer for it. Also, I'm pretty sure his hair isn't blonde, and since when are his forearms "rippling?"

And I did edit the misspelled words, grammar problems, and real names out of the thing. I think it makes it funnier, and also, there were surprisingly few. (!) But, no, his last name is not "Brewster," nor is mine actually "Norman." I should've made it something funny like "buttfuck," though.

I mean his name. Not mine.

Okay, whatever. Read at your own risk.

----------

In the Fall of 2004 I signed up for what was called the "Liberal Arts Committee," a collegiate organization of Liberal Arts students devoted to campus projects and school-wide events so that they can distract themselves from the fact that they have no useful skills to offer society whatsoever. Or at least, that was the pretense. At the time I was an idealistic young man who foolishly thought that, maybe, with the right effort, courage, and willingness to engage in devious acts on the most nefarious of levels, I would be able to maybe, just maybe, plant the seeds of my future into the fertile manure of college, and water it with daily with the fluid of dreams until it sprouted into the growth of promise, after which it would mature into leaves of success which could be smoked by the bong of retirement, and LAC seemed like just the lovely star to hitch my lovely wagon to. For you see, words like "committee" look good on a resume (or as the French call it, "the el resume"), and, if you follow Dungeons and Dragons rules, add + 4 to credibility and charisma. But then again, words like "liberal" and "arts" both subtract 3 points from reknown. But then you would be forgetting that the involvement the Liberal Arts Committee has with the Student Government adds a whopping +3 to all Universal Saving Throws. In the end, everything balances out, provided you have a respectable strength modifier and shower regularly.

Sadly, I was mistaken. LAC was not about engaging in campus events to distract ourselves from our painfully, painfully obivous worthlessness. Rather, it was a committee set up to talk about distracting ourselves from our worthlessness, and then make petty compromises about the most mundane and ridiculous of topics. Sometimes I wasn't even sure who people were arguing with. Sometimes they were arguing with themselves, making deals with their own self-worth, reducing such activites as fixing up homes for the elderly and poor to simply driving by the homes of the elderly and poor at a very high rate, and then maybe donating some petty cash to a small and dysfunctional charity, such as Debtor's Anonymous or The Molested Parrot Shelter of Greater Ohio, which would also be a pretty good band name.

Now, I am not an idealist, even though I just told you I was. That was a bold-faced lie. I also told you I was "young" and a "man," and I think I might've said thrown something in there about being the Herald of the Rapture, too. But, regardless, the truth is, I am not a determined, idealistic person. No, these here hands have spilled blood in every state from Colorado to Connecticut; sometimes my own, sometimes other people's, sometimes a mix of the two in what the Eutaw, Alabama Daily Times called "easily the most repulsive Easter Sunday in American history." But, still, I would much rather do something than just sit on my rear end talking about how I should be doing something, or sit on my rear end talking about how I am sitting on my rear end and scheduling later hours to come in and sit on my rear end and talk about doing something, which was usually the case. But that was exactly what we did all day, or at least what we were supposed to be doing. I mainly sat in the back of the room drawing pictures of monkeys in cowboy hats engaging priates in ruthless knife fights. If there's one thing those pictures taught me, it's never to trust a monkey who's skilled with a knife. Or a pirate. They truly are the scum of the earth. Also, cowboy hats are funny, especially if you add a jaunty feather.

So, towards the end of the Fall semester, I was disillusioned with the promise of success LAC had promised me. The whole thing just didn't look right to me anymore. Maybe it was the squabbling. Maybe it was the disorganization. Maybe it was the fact that I had gone legally blind from drinking too much. But either way, I would not stay. And, given the choice between either quitting or staying in for the long haul and trying to change LAC for the better, I chose option C, which was Going Down in Flames and being kicked out. I thought this was a great idea, namely because I'm too much of a coward to tell people I hate them, but never not enough of a jackass to miss out on inspiring their hatred and contempt on a massive scale. You might say that there's some flaw in that logic, or that there's just something gramatically wrong with that sentence, but then again you might also say that gravity doesn't exist and the force we perceive is just millions of invisible hands holding us down on the face of the earth every hour of every day. But if you said that, you'd be an idiot, and people probably wouldn't want to give you a home loan or something. I rest my case.

So when it came down to me to participate in interviewing new volunteers for LAC, the opportunity seemed too fat and plump to pass up, like a Wendy's or a Taco Cabana, but not like an Arby's because their roast beef is weird and they charge too much for their other sandwiches. They scheduled me to meet a Josh Brewster in one of the conference rooms in the Student Services Building. The board was set, and the pieces were moving, and there was nothing to fear but fear itself, and something about an iron curtian and drinking tea with glass in it.

"Dress nice," they said. "Act friendly. Ask personal questions. Get to know them."

Following the Geroge Costanza method of success, I showed up wearing a gin-soaked KISS ME I'M SHITFACED T-shirt and a pair of jeans a family of possums had recently vacated when conditions had become too awful for their lofty standard of living. I also stole my friend's sports coat at the last minute, just to class things up, but being that he was a giant fat guy it looked like I was wearing a very sombre circus tent. I figured that would add the perfect je ne sais quoi (German for "shattered feces") for the meeting. I took the volunteer dossier with me, along with plenty of crayons and a sharpie so I could draw a face on my hand and perform a puppet routine in front of the bathroom mirror should the whimsy take me.

As I waited, I read over the form this "Josh Brewster" had filled out. I immediately noticed the lack of headshots, and I noted this by writing "PIX PLZ" on the top of dossier and drawing arrows randomly pointing all over the paper indicating places where said pictures could conceivably go. I decided to rectify the situation myself, and made sketches of what I considered Josh Brewster might look like.

When he showed up, he immediately lost points for refusing to conform to the standards I set. Not only was he not 90 feet tall, but he also lacked the required scales, prosthetic limbs, and the ablitity to spew rich, creamy Hershey's chocolate. Instead, he was a tall, scrawny kid with golden curls, rippling forearms, and eyes you could get lost in for hours. Unstatisfactory.

"JOSH: 0," I wrote. "NORMAN: A BILLION."

"Come in," I said.

He smiled at me. What a fag.

"Are you Josh?" I asked.

"Yes," he said.

Too trusting.

"Take a seat," I said. As he did so I wrote "ICHIRO SUZUKI SUCKS BALLS" in the "date" portion of the dossier.

I glanced up.

"Are you sure you want that chair?" I asked.

He blinked and smile a little. "What?" he asked.

I looked at him for a moment, letting the silence slowly pregnante, and then smiled coldly, like the smile you give a lover just as you're leaving after sex, because you know you're going to take all the pizza with you on the way out the door and then not call.

"Nothing," I said. "It's nothing."

"I WOULD LIKE SOME PIZZA," I wrote in the "major" portion.

"Is that your shirt?" I asked him.

"Um," he said. "Yes."

I smiled and nodded sagely. "Good. Cool. All right." I stared at him for a moment, letting it go on just a little too long. I counted his blinks. There were seven.

"I tell you what, Josh," I said. "Can I call you 'Josh,' Josh?"

"Uh-"

"You seem like a straight shooter, Josh, so I'm gonna shoot straight at you."

"Okay," he said.

"Great," I said. "You look like a digger," I said. "Do you dig a lot, Josh?"

"What?" he said.

"You've got digger's shoulders, right there. Well-toned triceps and meaty deltoids, yessir, that's digger's shoulders. We have a lot of need for a man who can bury things around here. I'll be honest, the last four didn't cut it. They couldn't bury a dead cat, let alone a live one. I know, I followed them around for days in my van. They don't dig for pleasure or for sport. They don't even own their own shovel. Not even a pickaxe. You know, you can tell a lot about a man by the way he buries something, Josh. It's a crucial thing."

I leaned back in my chair and took out a highlighter. I cracked it open, removed the ink filter, and proceeded to smoke it like a cigarette. It might've looked odd to old Josh, what with how my face was dripping with pink ink, but I was deep in the heart of Flavor Country, headed for the local Flavor Saloon and then, more than likely, the Flavor Brothel to nail some Flavor Whores in their Flavor Asses, and then I'd probably try and skip out paying them the Flavor Money, which is pink, like everything else is there, and on the one Flavor Dollar bill is a picture of a woodpecker, but I don't know why. Josh wouldn't understand, what with his snooty, lack-of-chocolate-spewing attitude.

"Yeah," I went on. "Every once in a while a man has to go out in the woods and bury something. Sometimes a man buries a thing, sometimes a thing buries a man. Sometimes you're the thing, and sometimes you're the man, and I suppose sometimes you're the shovel, if the digger had managed to fashion a crude shovel of some sort out of your bones. It's the circle of life, that's what it is, Josh. I suppose if you were really determined you could 'bury' your way out of the hole the thing buried you in, but wouldn't that just be digging, Josh?"

"Uh-"

"Yes, yes it would, Josh. And I will not tolerate digging here. That's one thing we have to get clear. I will not. Tolerate. Digging," I said, forcefully tapping the desk with each word.

"Didn't you just ask me-"

"No," I said. "I don't ask. I never ask. Instead, I 'put a question to you.' There's a difference. One's more aggressive. For example, what's the difference between me saying, 'I want to put the wood to you' and 'I'd like to ask you to gently caress me?' The difference, Josh, is that one doesn't translate well into Welsh, while the other is downright delightful. That's the difference, Josh, and that's what makes LAC different. You have to think outside the box, think about the tone of questions. Always think outside the box, Josh, especially if you're burying it, because the dirt's what's outside the box. Just you and the dirt and the shovel. Also, you probably don't want to look inside the box, because more than likely you were told specifically not to, and it's probably all freaky and crazy anyway. And if you do, then what do you do when that big fat Hawaiian guy finds out and comes after you by the side of the road with a beretta?"

Josh stared at me so hard I thought his eyes were going to fall out. If that happened I was going to jump over the desk and punch him right in the face, because there's no better time to punch a guy than when he's got no eyes. He won't see it coming, unless his eyes are still capable of relaying thoughts to his head even when they're separated, like they're little wireless cameras or walkie talkies or something, and that's just plain nuts.

"I'll tell you what you do, Josh," I said, "You lead him into the woods with a series of deceptive bird calls and then you wait for dark, and then you kill him with a shovel. Then you've got two things to bury, Josh. All because you wanted to look inside the box. And what did looking inside the box get you, Josh? Did knowing that that Hawaiian guy wanted to bury a severed clown's head make you a better person? Huh, did it, Josh? I don't think so. Not at all. Now, I'm not saying I have a problem with clowns, Josh. I love clowns. Do you love clowns?"

"gently caress, yes," Josh said. I noticed he was breathing hard and quivering slightly. "I love clowns."

"Hmm," I said, and wrote, "M-O-O-N, THAT SPELLS EAT poo poo" in the line that read "applicant's signature"

"I love clowns," I went on when I was done. "I love them to death. Not physically, mind you. I don't care for the greasepaint. No, I love them for the entertainment. I just think they should get taxed more than regular folk, because they terrify children, and dammit, that's my area of expertise. I don't see why they should get paid to terrify children and I shouldn't. Why, if I had my way, I would lead them all out into the woods at night with a series of deceptive bird calls and them kill them one by one, BANG!" I said, hitting the table with my fist. "RIGHT IN THE BACK OF THE HEAD!". I'm fairly certain that at that moment Josh poo poo his pants. If he didn't then, he sure did later. I demonstrated the edge and angle of the shovel with a chop of my hand. "Not a lot of people can take a shovel in the back of the head, Josh. You think a clown might be able to, what with all the big curly red hair, but that's no cushion. Maybe it would be, if the hair was made out of steel wool, but who would want that? The hair would scatch up the other clown's crotches when they sat on each other's shoulders! And that's just awful, isn't it, Josh?"

"Yes," Josh said, but his voice was very hoarse.

"Do you think you can take a shovel to the back of the head, Josh? Because I can guarantee you can't. I've had people bet me they can take a shovel to the back of the head, but they never can. They never bet me with 'words,' so to speak, but they bet me with actions. By, say, cutting me off as they merge onto the highway, or being female and fairly attractive and not giving me any attention. It's the abstracts that matter, JoshShovel. It's the abstracts that matter in life, and it's the abstracts that matter here at LAC. At least I think they matter, but to be honest, I'm not sure what LAC does. When I joined I thought it was a lifeguard training organization, or maybe an elite Burying Things Organization, but instead all they do is get all red when I yell and then they ask me to leave. I think I was supposed to ask you some questions here, Josh, so I guess I better get down to that. First off, where do you live, and how many windows does it have that are accessible from the street?"

But when I looked up, Josh was long gone. All that was visible of him was his non-scaly backside fleeing into the neon corridors, running at a full sprint. That was a shame, because I wanted him to watch my puppet show. I would've even paid him in Flavor Dollars.

Within two weeks, Josh was safely concealed in a police safehouse, and I was dead.

----

What the gently caress. I think we can all consider ourselves lucky, because parts of the thing suggest that I planned to go on much longer.

quote:

That horse mocks you. Do you hear the neighing? More like naying! That horse says no to you. The horse is the man of the house. You are the horse. Clop clop! Trot about to your dingy office, little horsey. Your wife kisses her husband-horse when you can't see. And then again when you can. She buys it shoes, finer than any you'll own. Its metal feet crush your soul. "This horse is now man!" it exclaims. "I am defeated!" you cry. The horse has beat you. Soon you'll be in the stall, eating dry, bland grasses, while the majestic Horseband ferries your wife about town. "Oh!" the city folk shall say as they drop to their knees as their muscles fail them at the sight of such a couple. "The horse is such a man!" they weep as they tear out their eyes, knowing they'll never see such beauty again. Your wife and the HorseGod shall laugh and eat gold together. Ha ha! And your tears shall be blood as you shrivel and turn to dust, forgotten in that stall outside the city where the HORSE is now Emperor Of All and Lover Of One. The citizens will genuflect before the great beast, paying whatever tithe the Hoofed One demands, be it of coin or flesh. The people will rejoice to do so, as their Great and Benevolent Equine shall make their crops plenty, and their lives ever long. The rotten stall shall collapse on your worm-eaten bones, and none shall remember a whit about you. Except the UrHorse, the original horse, who shall shed no tear, but blink in bitter recollection of that brief time he had to endure you.

Do not let this come to be. Shoot that horse. With your Glock. Eat its meat. Make a horse stew. Turn its bones into glue, and use it to glue the skull to your wall. Use its hooves to make a tasteless gelatin to encase its eyes in. Do it. Be the man of the house, not the man of the horse. He watches!

egon_beeblebrox posted:

JoshShovel

egon_beeblebrox posted:

I leaned back in my chair and took out a highlighter. I cracked it open, removed the ink filter, and proceeded to smoke it like a cigarette. It might've looked odd to old Josh, what with how my face was dripping with pink ink, but I was deep in the heart of Flavor Country, headed for the local Flavor Saloon and then, more than likely, the Flavor Brothel to nail some Flavor Whores in their Flavor Asses, and then I'd probably try and skip out paying them the Flavor Money, which is pink, like everything else is there, and on the one Flavor Dollar bill is a picture of a woodpecker, but I don't know why. Josh wouldn't understand, what with his snooty, lack-of-chocolate-spewing attitude.

mind the walrus posted:

Just capture all the squirrels and take them to Buffalo Wild Wings. They might not get the message but you'll have a hell of a time.

egon_beeblebrox posted:

quote:

Within two weeks, Josh was safely concealed in a police safehouse, and I was dead.

----

What the gently caress. I think we can all consider ourselves lucky, because parts of the thing suggest that I planned to go on much longer.

Putty posted:

if optimus prime can be stored on a floppy disk, then these printers can change the war economy

Avocados posted:

Forgot who posted it though, its just on a little notepad file , but its by far my favorite SA quote ever.

quote:

OBAMA NAMES ASLAN TO HEAD HHS; TASH WILL BE SECDEF
By Airza

WASHINGTON - We thought it might be nice if Obama would give us health care. Instead everything is possible all at once. Everything you want is simply imagined and becomes a part of this world. Asked for comment, a man turned into a bird and flew away.

The inauguration was disrupted by the clicks and chatters of a thousand vermin, who poured out of the sewer and are no longer responding to hoses. The president continues to speak and suggests a world without a terrorist threat, but the mice inch closer whenever he stops speaking. We are afraid he will run out of things to say.

Top Gym Pumper posted:

Lunixnerd posted:

Like you wash your hands between porn movies or have some sort of wank-tongs that you use to change tapes during your refractory period, please.

Whizbang posted:

It doesn't matter what Schumacher set out to do. It's Death of the Author but instead of being dead he's just really really gay.

Avocados posted:

Forgot who posted it though, its just on a little notepad file , but its by far my favorite SA quote ever.

quote:

Have no fear. There is still time to be a war hero. The Great War is still coming. It’s there, over the horizon, and its sails are full with the wind that beats from the wings of the angel of history on her endless journey to escape us.

That ghost ship rushes towards you every bit as fast as you could hope. Faster than you might have wanted, in hindsight.

Assuming you get to enjoy that peculiar wisdom of the living.

Avocados posted:

Forgot who posted it though, its just on a little notepad file , but its by far my favorite SA quote ever.

Fanzay posted:

It's from the "Toxx yourself for Romney" thread last election. hosed if I can remember the name of the poster, though.

Ugly In The Morning posted:

It's definitely way, way older than 2012. I've seen it around here for years.

Ensign Expendable posted:

BIG ROCKET!

The Soviets built one of these things and tested it. Then someone asked "what if the enemy shoots at the rockets?", at which point everyone shuffled around awkwardly for a bit and the project was cancelled.

Brother Jonathan posted:

I'm not sure where people get the idea that I am "obsessed" with trains from. FYAD fan-fiction seems to have made me into a model railroad enthusiast even though I've never had a model train before.

And who told you that I live with my parents? It is impossible for me to live in the same house as my parents as they haven't lived in the same house as each other for years. And I also wonder how exactly I was able to have a career in the U.S. Navy — in a submarine, no less — without ever moving out of my parents house? Some people hate the mods so much that they are willing to believe anything.


Here is the truth of it: When I became a mod, I disagreed with Eggplant Wizard's method of handing out dozens of probations for derailing. When I saw that a thread had jumped the rails or had opened a can of worms, instead of probating, I would post a warning in the thread and only punish if the derail continued after the warning. This worked quite well in most of the threads, and I gave out a lot fewer probations for derailing than Eggplant Wizard ever did. The only exceptions were the PYF Ban/Probation thread and the PYF Quotes thread, where FYAD regulars hung out. For some reason, they would treat the warnings as provocations, and my attempt to avoid the blanket probations had the opposite effect with them.

On October 24th, shortly after the Aatrek scandal, I posted a warning in the PYF Ban/Probation thread after people who were upset that a thread had been gassed tried to bring it back to life in the wrong place. Black Baby Goku took that as the signal for an insurrection, and FYAD invaded PYF. I queued up one-day probations while I waited to see if the admins would do anything, and then closed that thread and the PYF Quotes thread, which had also been invaded.

Those one-day probations are the reason why FYAD launched their vendetta. The admins told me that the best thing to do was to do nothing at all and to pretend that nothing was happening. If I gave out no punishments, supposedly they would get bored and leave me alone and go back to behaving properly. I disagreed, but I had to do what they said. I only gave out two probations to FYAD regulars in the next two months, and those were for image leeching and no content. PYF eventually came under control after about a month, but by then so many people hated me on the forums that I was fired by the admins on December 18th.

palmkernel posted:

quote:

And who told you that I live with my parents? It is impossible for me to live in the same house as my parents as they haven't lived in the same house as each other for years. And I also wonder how exactly I was able to have a career in the U.S. Navy — in a submarine, no less — without ever moving out of my parents house? Some people hate the mods so much that they are willing to believe anything.

Brother Jonathan posted:

Blackheart posted:

Submarines are sorta like underwater trains if you really think about it.

no wait

FYI, I have never been detailed to a submarine. I went to sub school but transferred to the surface navy. In the navy, I was a "green shirt," an avionics technician on an aircraft carrier, specializing in the EA-6B Prowler and the A-6E Intruder. It is a shame that archives search isn't available so I could find the GiP posts I made on the subject.

However, someone somewhere said I was on a submarine, and some people will believe anything they read on the Internet.

Moose King posted:

I think it's from LF, but that's just from a quick Google search that had an older Quotes thread as the result. I definitely remember finding the post itself, but I don't remember the thread name or how to find it again.

Coffee And Pie posted:

Only have this one in picture format for some reason, sorry.

1stGear posted:

Every time I read this quote, I desperately want this movie to be made. I don't know if it'd be more or less funny now that there's a Pope who isn't Emperor Palpatine.

1stGear posted:

Every time I read this quote, I desperately want this movie to be made. I don't know if it'd be more or less funny now that there's a Pope who isn't Emperor Palpatine.

BigSexyWitGlasses posted:

is it just me?

i covered it with a tiny bandaid.

i just dont trust that it cant be turned on without my knowledge even if i have it SET on off.

i am so much more comfortable now.

anyone else?

Nude Bog Lurker posted:

i want the NSA to see my wanking so no

i want some buttoned-down mormon nerd to be all sweaty and uncomfortable while he sees me beat it to butt gently caress sluts gone nuts viii: final analhilation

steinrokkan posted:

Gonterman... I've heard that name before. Is he the guy who tried to e-seduce a 15y.o. girl until her parents stepped in, then wrote Sonic self-insert fiction in which he justified his actions?

Fuego Fish posted:

Who here among us can honestly say that this exact sequence of events in its entirety has not, at some point, played itself out in their lives? Judge not, lest ye be judged.

ity bity tity boi posted:

one is a cabal of professional virgins who harbor pedophiles and raise money for friend of the family hating peckerwoods. the other one serves wine