Dr. Gitmo Moneyson posted:

That last one is a tiny plesiosaur. Big difference.

monkey posted:

I used to sell computers for Harvey Norman in '91. Back then, Harvey Norman was a discount white goods retail chain, ie: they sold fridges, washing machines and that sort of thing, the computer department was a new thing and only a handful of kids like myself had any clue what was going on, I was a nice guy and used to ask customers what they wanted to do with their computer to figure out whether they actually needed an FPU, or would the standard SX model do. One day a young couple came in looking to buy their first PC and after they explained that she worked as a typist and was looking forward to things like backspace and spell checking I told them that our computers, with software and dot matrix printer included would cost them around $2,500. But if backspace, spellcheck and line formatting is all they want to do, they could buy an electric typewriter that buffers the last line and shows it on a little LCD screen, and does not actually type the letters until you hit carriage return. This was much closer to what they actually wanted, since dot matrix printers were not yet up to the quality of a traditional typewriter, and electric typewriters sold for around $300 to $500. Unfortunately Harvey Norman did not sell electric typewriters, so they walked out with cash in pocket. A few days later the same couple came back in, it was midweek and the store was quiet, so a handful of sales guys swooped on them like vultures (I was busy showing another customer how to print) but no, they wanted to speak to me specifically. They told me that they'd found exactly what they were looking for elsewhere, and were gushing gratitude for me saving them $2000. Then, despite my objections, the guy stuffed $300 in my shirt pocket, which was more than the commission I would have made by selling them a PC. Since it was a quiet day, the manager overheard this exchange and I was fired that afternoon. On my way home I saw a guy being spitroasted by a couple of octopuses that had escaped from the local aquarium.

Tide posted:

Keep in mind that I say this as someone who is pretty drat happy with the way life has worked out. I have a well paying job. I have a great wife. I have an awesome kid. By and large, aside from being a good 20-30 lbs overweight, I'm pretty healthy. I'm a decent enough looking guy that if I were divorced tomorrow I wouldn't have problems lining up a date by the weekend. I have a couple of friends that I feel like I can share my worst fears with. Beyond those two, I have a fairly robust social network of friends. Not overly tight with family, other than my parents (it wasn't always this way), but that's never been a 'thing' and that's 'okay'.

So all that taken into consider, in my 42 years on this earth, I have come to the inescapable conclusion of the following:

Life, as it is, for 99 percent of us, is a giant pain in the dick. You lose more than you win. You will fail more than you will succeed. Work sucks rear end. Things rarely, if ever, turn out like you want - never mind how you plan. The only thing that happens quickly is something bad. Something good takes time. Despite the income, I hate my job. I hate that my house isn't exactly how I want it. Most of us, unless we have some serious willpower, live paycheck to paycheck. I have a decent 401K built up and a pension, but no where near enough in my immediate savings.

But.

All of that is...okay.

Here is what I have accepted...

My job is not a reflection of who I am, it is merely a means to an end. That end is providing a pretty good life for my family. As long as I can do that, I'm happy.

My dick is not as big as I want, and that's ok. It's big enough to get the job done. I'm a grow-er not a show-er.

I smile and laugh as much as humanly possible. I feel like I sometimes I MAKE myself be happy. I watch the poo poo out of feel good videos which vary from bullies getting their rear end kicked/comeuppance, to cats falling off things, to puppies and babies, to good things humans do for other humans and or animals. I'm also a crier so it makes me tear up watching humans do for other humans and or animals.

Things that make me unhappy or affect my outlook on life or anything general, I avoid. It's admittedly akin to being an ostrich and sticking my head in the sand and that dovetails to...

What I can control is what I worry about. What I cannot control, I simply don't worry about. It is what it is or will be. I will deal with "it" when and if "it" comes.

It is ok to lose and ok to not succeed. It is a learning experience to doing better then next round.

Learning? I try and learn something new every day. Doesn't matter what it is, but if there's some stupid thing I want to learn or I have every wondered about, I try and figure it out/learn about it.

I'm a hugger. I tell my family I love them a hundred times a day. I tell my closest friends "Hey, man...love ya mean it". It makes me feel good. And the cool thing? They say it back. Hell, I got a bit misty writing that. Huggin' makes me feel good. So I do it.

I cried like a baby 10 minutes into Pixar's Up. I teared up on Toy Story 3. I positively BAWLED at age 32 after watching the Fox and The Hound. And I'm 100 percent ok with that.

I help others because it feels good to do it. And it's good to help others anyway, but there's a certain feeling you get from doing something good.

Even though I hate it, my house will eventually GET THERE.

And all of that is okay

I could keep going and going, but the point is, if I am capable of making one is this.

Life is hard. Wear a helmet. Much of your life is controllable to a certain outlook and a certain maturity. What's not is that weird part of your brain that needs some medical help balancing itself. I haven't always been this...happy. But much of that happiness is me making myself happy. I try and dress well. Not wear a suit and a fedora, but just look...sharp. I keep a clean haircut. I shave most every day. I make my bed every day as a signal its time to get it on. The day is a challenge and I want to meet it. I want to beat it.

And it's okay if sometimes I don't.

If you are unhappy, and therapy or pharmaceuticals aren't doing their job, find out what is making you unhappy and simply change it. Easier said than done, I know but the fact is, it will not happen today. It may not happen tomorrow. It may not even happen next loving year.

It's kind of like the riddle of "How do you eat an elephant?"

One bite at a time

Everything in life is a step. It may be a couple steps back or it may be a tiny baby step foward. Even side ways. But you WILL eventually take steps forward. And when you do? Celebrate the gently caress out of it for a bit. But keep your eyes on the next step. Because it's a shift fucker and you have to roll with it. You have to take control of what YOU can control. Building a habit builds a routine. All the great things in my life took steps to achieve. It took loving WORK. My marriage, which is damned strong, takes DAILY work. Whoever says marriage is easy! is full of poo poo. There is no easy day in ANYTHING. Raising a kid? Hardest damned thing I've ever done in my life. But he's a damned good kid because of the work we put into it.

Maybe all that sounds like 'pick your bootstraps up, and quit being a bitch'. But I've been homeless and living out of my car. I've eaten off other peoples plate when I worked/waiting tables at restaurants because I had no money at the time or the money needed to go elsewhere. I've been fired from jobs. I've been laid off. The wife left me for a while because I was an immature selfish bastard. I've worked 100 hour weeks so that my wife could stay home after our kid was born.

I generally hate motivational speakers, but there's one guy that really spoke to ME:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PPqprN5nrJg

But he's 100000000000 percent right. Pain is temporary. Quitting is forever. Find your motivation. For me? It's simple. My family and friends. It's not having a six figure salary or bank account, it's simply my family and friends and being able to provide for THEM. I'll loving shovel poo poo 23 hours a day if that is what it takes. My goal isn't money. My goal is their security, their freedom, their well being, their happiness. Money is just a big part of the equation to secure those. You have to find your motivation and define your success.

The person I was 20 years ago is NOT the person I am today. I was an angry, selfish, short tempered, immature rear end in a top hat with a chip on my shoulder because of <reasons>. I had major trust issues. I was paranoid.

Then one day I woke up and decided I simply was not going to be that guy anymore. I dropped every single thing I had, moved, and essentially step by step became who I am NOW. It took me 10 years from THAT point of breaking negative habits and outlooks and finding out WHAT made me angry, unhappy, miserable. I began taking leaps of faith that the person in front of me was genuine. It took years, but being positive and happy became habit. I came to terms with absentee parents and vowed I would NEVER be that way with my kid(s) when and if I have them. Every day is a fight to make myself 'better', for lack of a better word. Be a better friend. Be a better husband. Be a better father. Be a better person.

Life, for pretty much everybody, takes work. A lot of work.

Get to it.

Bucephalus posted:

Subjunctive posted:

I don't find that very funny, I have to say.

Daikatana Ritsu posted:

A Computer Scientists Analysis of the Funny Level of the name CRIP EATIN BREAD:

• Crip (+4 Funny) - From the infamous group of blacks that are also violent and drink malt liquor out of 40oz bottles, thus, "the 40 slang". Example: "Ey yo Lil BeeBee, get me a 40 son!"
  
• Eatin (+4 Funny) - Fats and mostly deathfats who love to eat fast food instead of making farm fresh meals at home for half the cost. Note the absence of the letter G. This indicates a funny thing that minorities/poors do, which is leave the G off of certain words.
  
• Bread (+2 Funny) - Only poors and fats eat bread tbh. The bread part on it's own doesnt add much funny to the name, but poors are inherently hilarious, and combining both Blacks and Fats into the fold results in fantastic synergy among the overall Joke of the name.
  

Face Value Funny score: 10 + Synergy Bonus (x10) = Perfect 100 Funny Score

LOVE LOVE SKELETON posted:

I thought you were quoting the post about the sock monkey and started forming strong words.

Breetai posted:

I'm the modest yet adequately workable dick size.

Subjunctive posted:

I don't find that very funny, I have to say.

Bucephalus posted:

Faux-rear end Nonsense posted:

awkwerd paws posted:

sup, CRIP EATIN BREAD here, i saw your profile and i have to say i think youre really gorgeous. i also enjoy %504 data fetch error% . i could stare into your Enjoys books, parties, and drinks with friends eyes all day. maybe we can meet up local for a coffee in %504 data feCLOSING
PROGRAM terminal function in /getcurvystupidgirlstosexme.exe ███▓▓▓▒▒▒▒▒ /getcurvystupidgirlstosexme.exe must be restarted to perform any further action

Mans posted:

why is that post in a automobile forum

Sham bam bamina! posted:

Pretty sure that was just one-upmanship without regard to usernames, and if we're going to be that specific, there's no such thing as a "brontosaurus" anyway.

Kitfox88 posted:

Related does anyone have that story about the guy who runs slowly

quote:

I run slow

I work in the social services, and a lot of the people we work with have a lot of regrets. I've asked our case managers to have their clients come out and watch me run. I run so slow, time run backwards. As I waddle along, your life runs in reverse. Scars becomes wounds become chances to exercise better judgement. I run slow.

Like most people, I enjoy running in the mornings, before it gets to hot. Unlike most people, I've been pushed over by a squirrel.

I run slow. Sometimes when I am running, I think of those zen fountains that absorb a drip drip drip of water down a bamboo tube before finally tipping over and dumping their contents into a pool. Each step I take is another drip. I think, that fountain would call me a pussy.

I run slow. But I know where I have been.

Six months ago, I didn't run.

Six months ago, I had heartburn bad enough to keep me from sleeping through the night. Six months ago, I felt like I needed to go to sleep at 2pm. And six months ago, running felt impossible.

I run slow, and I have ways to go. But I can sleep. I feel alive. I can run two, slow, miles. Slowly.

Sometimes I get discouraged. I compare where I am to where other people are. But all that matters is where I am compared to where I was.

Once something good becomes something you are going to do for the rest of your life, the pace becomes less important. I know that my drip drip drip will amount to that deluge, eventually. Someday I will run 3 miles, slowly.

Sham bam bamina! posted:

Phthisis posted:

one of my favorites

http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=2932975

Breetai posted:

"I run slow" is concise and to the point and tells you a lot about the person who wrote it, where he is, where he's going, and where he's been that isn't explicitly stated, and as a result has you rooting for him.

But what if... what if, goons, it was also 5 times as long, reads like an amalgamation of 5 years worth of 'inspirational' Facebook posts by your grandma and that one girl who you found annoying but not annoying enough to cull from your friends list just yet because her tendency to rant about the drama of her shambolic life is still amusing, and written by a man who has likely unironically used the phrase "but I make up for it with my tongue", picked that particular verbal turd off the floor where it fell, and adhered it to himself like a badge of honour.

quote:

I run slow

I work in the social services, and a lot of the people we work with have a lot of regrets. I've asked our case managers to have their clients come out and watch me run. I run so slow, time run backwards. As I waddle along, your life runs in reverse. Scars becomes wounds become chances to exercise better judgement. I run slow.

Like most people, I enjoy running in the mornings, before it gets to hot. Unlike most people, I've been pushed over by a squirrel.

I run slow. Sometimes when I am running, I think of those zen fountains that absorb a drip drip drip of water down a bamboo tube before finally tipping over and dumping their contents into a pool. Each step I take is another drip. I think, that fountain would call me a pussy.

I run slow. But I know where I have been.

Six months ago, I didn't run.

Six months ago, I had heartburn bad enough to keep me from sleeping through the night. Six months ago, I felt like I needed to go to sleep at 2pm. And six months ago, running felt impossible.

I run slow, and I have ways to go. But I can sleep. I feel alive. I can run two, slow, miles. Slowly.

Sometimes I get discouraged. I compare where I am to where other people are. But all that matters is where I am compared to where I was.

Once something good becomes something you are going to do for the rest of your life, the pace becomes less important. I know that my drip drip drip will amount to that deluge, eventually. Someday I will run 3 miles, slowly.

Kitfox88 posted:

Thanks


What

Bucephalus posted:

Goddamnit I've ruined the thread.

Zamboni_Rodeo posted:

No you haven't, I'm in search of a seriouspost right now myself.

Does anyone have the quote that started with a goon's great-(great-?) grandmother sending her sons off to war, and ending with something to the effect of "A new war is coming..." The very last sentence is something like "Assuming you live long enough to learn that peculiar knowledge of the [something]."

It shows up in these quotes threads a lot -- I want to say it was an Adaptive Systems post, but I can't swear to it.

Adaptive Systems posted:

My father’s mother recently died, in her late nineties, after two solid decades of fervent, daily, devoutly Catholic prayer for release from her increasingly humiliatingly decrepit body. I remember sitting with her in the dead of winter, in a lovely seafood restaurant, a few miles from the Atlantic. It wasn’t too long before her mind went, and almost as if she knew she didn’t have much time, she talked hurriedly, pausing only to sip her mineral water, and then returning to all the wondrous things she had the great good fortune to witness, from hearing the news that Peary had made it to the North pole, to actually seeing the Spirit of Saint Louis in person.

She remembered very keenly an afternoon spent doing the laundry in the alleyway with her mother in the Irish ghetto of Philadelphia. While they washed, they each kept an eye on her two younger brothers Frank and Joseph playing at war. A neighbor woman stopped in passing and said that she thought it wasn’t proper, to let kids play at war, what with the American boys dying over there, nowadays. And plus, it wasn’t Christian to encourage that sort of thing, now that we knew how horrible it could be, what with the mustard gas and the machine guns.

My great-grandmother nodded, she understood perfectly. But, she said, since there was really no danger of these children ever having to go to war, she couldn’t really see the harm in it. Might as well let the little ones play, without scaring them by telling them that it wasn’t a game. She thought it could hardly do any harm; everyone knew there wouldn’t be any wars after this one, this war to settle all disputes, to settle the course of human civilization for the next millennia. Humanity simply couldn’t afford it, and all the leaders of the Great Powers knew it, finally. The Neighbor saw her point, and confided in her how she too felt so lucky to know that her children would never have to sail off and fight in a distant land, but that she also felt guilty, knowing that Missus O’Shea’s son had been born too soon for her to enjoy the same comfort.

Two decades later, my grandmother was living in San Francisco with her husband, a structural engineer who quit his practice designing skyscrapers and went to work for the military designing battleships. She heard the news of the Pearl Harbor attack while her husband was out boozing with his floozies. He came home late, and she clutched at him in a fearful frenzy the instant he came in the door. Assuming she was on again about his living in mortal sin and all that poo poo, he slapped her in the mouth and called her a crazy bitch before passing out. She went out to the bank that week, and remembered seeing all the pretty Japanese girls in the city all made up like movie stars, but so scared they trembled and looked like they would burst into tears at any moment.

And then, a few short years later, her brother Frank was leaning out of a tank hatch, not too far from Berlin. He was in the middle of a small town, one that had been cleared of Nazis, listening to an officer in the street, who was directing tanks forward. While he was trying to hear the officer’s voice over the din of the engines, he caught a glimpse of a man appearing in the open doorway of the ruined building across the street, and saw him instantly unleash a Panzerfaust directly at the center mass of the tank that he precariously balanced from. The Panzerfaust sparked across the street, and the officer, shouting orders, never seeing it coming, took it squarely in the back. It exploded through him, sending a shower of shrapnel and flesh cascading off the tank and through Frank’s torso, neatly slicing his left arm off just below the shoulder.

After the war, even with one arm, he was still able to find good factory work, and being a purple heart helped, though not as much as you might think, given that everyone was busy trying to get in on the rising tide and join the middle class. Frank’s brother Joseph spent the war doing clerical, rear-echelon work. After the war, he became an accountant and did well for himself. Each brother silently knew who had gotten the better end of the bargain.

Frank suffered a stroke in the bathroom at eighty. Three more the next week, and a drooling but largely lucid death that I am sure he thanked his loving Catholic God he had lived long enough to enjoy. Losing your arm as a kid teaches you a few things, I think. Like, “Better to die flat on your back in bed than cut in half on the cobblestones,” and don’t let the liars fool ya, kid.

Everyone is sad to see the greatest generation go, and rightly so. The wars of the past century are myths to us; we all want to draw near the old veterans sitting around the dimming campfire and be regaled by the tales of their heroism, and fanaticize about the acts of courage we would have been capable of, if only history had seen fit to grace us with the chance. The simplest of us mourn openly for lack of an opportunity to prove ourselves, though most of us, even the most decent, will find some similar longing if we search honestly enough .

But none of us is too eager to have been the wives of some of these heroes, trying to understand why they could only sleep on the floors for years after coming home, or deal with them sinking into Alzheimer’s, limping around the house shouting. Where are you? Where are you? Sergeant, Donny’s in the street! Sergeant! Get out of my way you German bitch! Sergeant! Donny’s hit! And none of us fantasize about being the mothers, getting the telegraph with the details of our only child’s death. And none of us, honestly, is too eager to have died at Iwo Jima, no matter how much fun Hollywood makes it look.

Instead we imagine what it must have been like, wearing bomber jackets, flak flying by on our left and our right, having no fear, knowing we were as pure as Arthurian Knights. We relish the thought of outflanking our enemy and taking vengeance for poor, poor Kowalski’s death, because we always imagine it’ll be our best friend to go, and never us. We comfort ourselves with the compliment that it will be us that stays coolly, crucially detached in the heat of battle while the blood of our fellow teenagers is hacked brutally into our faces, between hideous pleading sputters.

For some, the fact that I should merely pause to reflect upon these truths is disgraceful; a sign of cowardice and shameful slander on the dead, if not outright treason. For them, for those brave souls unencumbered by dread of slaughter, who weep not for broken cities, who see shallow corpse-strewn puddles as a paths to glory, who see war coming to them as a sacred calling, a chance to make prideful sacrifices and secure a lifetime’s worth of valor, for them I bring this consoling reassurance:

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.

Van Kraken posted:

Dulce et Decorum Est, Pro Patria Mori

Van Kraken posted:

Adaptive Systems brilliance

Enourmo posted:

also, lesbians/bisexuals. its 2016, women can legally have wives now.

sweeperbravo posted:

This was a recent one, the guy posting about how his dad died but their favorite football team was about to win and then the attempt at the field goal bounced off the goalpost into the hands of the opposing team who then scored?

The Glumslinger posted:

timp posted:

So, my uncle passed away on Thanksgiving.

I admittedly wasn't too close with him, but he was definitely the de facto patriarch of our extended family, so we all knew we had to come together. Tonight was the viewing, and the whole family is in town. My family and I drove up from Charlotte, and the cousins and some of their closest friends all drove in from their various home towns around PA.

After the viewing we all migrated to the house. Although the game was on, nobody was really paying much attention. But I decided, gently caress it, this is what he'd be doing if he was here, so myself and a few cousins start watching. God love my uncle, but despite the rest of his family being diehard Steeler fans, he loved the Browns.

After the Schaub interception, a Browns win looks inevitable. My sister decides to walk around the house and start corralling the entire family into the living room. The Browns are about to win. It was like our beloved patriarch, winking at us from a above. A reminder that, no matter how bad things may seem, there's always the potential for things to go well.

http://i.imgur.com/EepNsGn.gifv

graybook posted:

Was it this post?

Carl Killer Miller posted:

Can anyone help me complete my collection

THA TITTY THRILLER posted:

Pittsburgh Lambic posted:

The female Kremlings are apparently designed by someone who has no idea what a female Kremling would look like. The idea of introducing gendered identities to normally non-gendered alligators so often treats the familiar as inherently masculine. Female Kremlings are painted hot yellow and granted the enlarged, fluttery swords so often used to distinguish women from men in lazily drawn cartoons. "Look at that cutlass," declares Diddy and he gets a look at one of the ladykremlings' rear end. In one scene, the game even eroticises

Nooner posted:

i am a sexual deviant, i like to have gears and milk and trucks

Nooner posted:

huh you guys didnt have to make a whole thread dedicated to my post history

unpacked robinhood posted:

Dr. Honked posted:

v for velveeta

Jerry Cotton posted:

"Miscarriage?"
"Yes, Snake, it's an internal quarters combat technique developed by the Soviet Union."
"Internal quarters combat?"
"Internal quarters combat or IQC is a way of disposing of enemies that are inside you. The most common move is called Poison Womb."
"Poison Womb, huh?"
"Yes, Snake. That move can kill any person inside of you."
"Sounds like it would be much harder on the man."
"It sure does, Snake."