The MSJ posted:

Oreos are addictive.

carry on then posted:

if you don't break a sweat you aren't doing it hard enough

prefect posted:

this is how i feel about eating

The MSJ posted:

Oreos are addictive.

Pick posted:

Sentient Data posted:

"Rrhist, rhut a rassrole"

Eripsa posted:

Since the Polytopolis has no central authority, there is no need for central processing. Processing only occurs at the end-user interactions-- in other words, it is decentralized.

D&D games have a dungeon master as a central authority, but in a player vs player battle typically the players can duke it out without needing to consult the DM. If a DM lets the game get to a position of PvP it must have been planned, so the DM sits as referee to the fight, but the players can engage each other directly with just the information on their sheets while the DM takes a whiz.

The analogous position with D&D character sheets is if two different troops are using two different editions (and character sheets). This creates a problem with synchronizing between players, even in distributed play. Similarly, the "centralizing" aspect of the Polytopolis is simply the fact that everyone is playing by the same model, and so interprets properties in the same basic way. But this convention doesn't require routing each interaction between a central exchange.

Mystery Opponent posted:

Funny thing that I remember is a road sign in Croatia that said "Slovenia" and underneath it someone sprayed GAY.

euphronius posted:

Schmi is using sex appeal to try and get the powerful Jedi to free her. Unfortunately for her, he is attracted to her young son

The MSJ posted:

Trochanter posted:

I'll give it a shot:

"Delta One, be advised we're sending in three f-35s for close air support. ETA, twelve minutes."

The knot in Warrant Officer Brown's stomach tightened. The Ford Pinto of the skies was coming to their rescue. They were dead men.

Delta Platoon had formed a perimeter in the town square, winning the hearts and minds of half the Taliban in the province. A routine smash-and-grab for Al-Qaeda's No.2 in Afghanistan du jour had gone wrong when their Black Hawks were shot out from under them. The insurgents had Block 2 Stinger missiles, courtesy of Uncle Sam and the Syrians. The Allies were sending what reinforcements it could, but were held up by IEDs and roadside ambushes. Attempts to send in helicopters were met with the shriek of MANPADS. It was clear Delta wasn't going anywhere unless those Stingers were taken out.

Brown's men had sighted the Taliban with their MANPADS on the roof of a nearby house. "This is Red One, Bombs Away!" crackled Brown's radio. He could hear Danger Zone in the background. He peeked out of cover and scanned the horizon amidst the whizzing bullets and explosions. Where the hell was Red One? An interminable minute passed as the Taliban with their missiles fled into a nearby shop. Moments later an explosion demolished the now-empty building.

"Delta One, this is Red One, executing turn manoeuvre, back in five minutes."

"Red squadron, this is Delta One! Priority targets have moved southeast into a shop."

"Delta One, Red Two here, please give a description of the shop."

"Red Two, It's a brown square building... green sign... it's a bakery!"

"Delta One, how the gently caress am I supposed to find a bakery at thirty thousand feet?!"

Close air support, my rear end, thought Brown. "Look, just bomb the drat intersection, will you?"

A minute later another dull thud and a puff of smoke erupted near the shop.

"Delta One, please confirm target hit."

"Negative, you bombed a school. Full of Canadians."

"YEEE-HAH! Secondary objectives achieved! Returning to base for re-arming, re-fuelling and 2 weeks of maintenance."

A mortar round landed nearby and sent several of his men reeling. Warrant Officer Brown had enough. He screamed into his mike.

"Red Three, listen the gently caress up, you worthless shitheel! You're our last hope here! We are taking CASUALTIES! You NEED to get in closer and KILL these fuckers!"

"OOHRAH OOHRAH OOHRAH 10-4 SEMPER FI THESE COLORS DON'T RUN!"

Oh God. Oh God! I just assumed they were--! I didn't know!

"Negative, negative! Stand down, Marine! Disengage! Remember your training, padawan!" The panic in his voice set his men even farther on edge.

"OOHRAH OOHRAH LEMME SEE YOUR WAR FACE REMEMBER GUADALCANAL gently caress YOU YOU HADJI MOTHERFUCKERS!!"

His commanders tried to talk him down, but it was too late. He was now the few and the proud, fighting the fire golems in his mind. His programming activated, Red Three started down towards the biggest battle he could find - the square Delta Platoon was defending. The Taliban with the missiles held back; this wasn't the first Marine pilot they'd encountered.

"EVERYBODY DOWN! INCOMING MARINE!" shouted Brown. The men that weren't frozen in place dived for the ground with whispered prayers on their lips. They looked up frightfully to see the grim spectre of death bearing down on them, the red veins in his eyes, the KA-BAR in his teeth, the rifle firing wildly from the plane's gunport.

"THIS IS FOR SOAP OOHRAH OOHRAH YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH WE ARE STILL IN THE DESERT" The F-35B slowed and activated its vertical flight system. The wash from the turbine and engine was an encompassing, scorching maelstrom that swept away all the crumbling buildings and unlucky people in its path. It was the finger of God, if God was a psychopathic fuckwit.

Before this grunt-nado there was no escape. The fruits of corporate decadence, military blood-lust and imperial hubris were about to be given to Delta Platoon in their full measure. "Thanks, Obama" muttered Warrant Officer Brown. His world filled with fire and debris, and then he knew no more.

bradzilla posted:

Kavak posted:

deadly_pudding posted:

Dear GIRLFRIEND ,

When I send you an excel file containing the next 2 month's budget because I want your input about whether to drop $400 on a Nintendo Switch and games, sending "Gay." as an answer and then ignoring me is a good way to get loving BLACKLISTED FROM HOUSEHOLD DECISIONS.

Chuck Buried Treasure posted:

Chuck Buried Treasure posted:

my dad posted:

How can someone be this dumb?

Neddy Seagoon posted:

That's the one, thankyou .

Trochanter (I think) posted:

Major Laurier had picked the wrong day to change meth dealers.

The sharp pounding in his head had started just as the scramble alert came on. A Russian Tupolev Tu-95 bomber had blatantly violated Canada's northern sovereignity and was headed for the strategic city of Yellowknife. It was up to his squadron, No. 420 Harper's Harriers to show those Slav bastards what-for with their state-of-the-art C-35 war machines... and peacefully escort them out of Canada's airspace.

Now, he was alone. Captain Fraiser's C-35 had flown through a cloud and the moisture had torn its skin from its fuselage. The rookie, Lieutenant Dorian, had attempted a gentle banked turn and the strain on his engine was too great. His plane exploded in a hail of fire, cheap steel and packing peanuts. He didn't even have time to scream. loving hotshot, thought the Major.

The Tupolev was zooming southeast at a blistering Mach 0.3 but he was slowly closing in on his prey. He had already dropped his external fuel tanks, all four of his bullets and his missile to stay airborne, and the airframe was shuddering like his Chevy Cavalier on the Trans-Canada Highway. The radar app had crashed an hour ago and OnStar was useless. No, I don't want to find a loving gas station, I'm trying to intercept a warplane! Nonetheless, he had followed the contrails left by the bomber in the northern sky. He knew he was close. And then there! On the edge of his horizon, a vast twenty miles away, were the Russians. He clenched his jaw and punched up the afterburners. The plane kicked and lurched like a mechanical bull with half the gears broken. He set course to ram his plane into the hulking turboprop. I knew I wasn't coming back from this mission, he thought. I'm a C-35 pilot. We don't come back. But at least I'll take these assholes with me. His squadron's motto, gently caress EVERYONE AND PISS ON THEIR ASHES, rang in his ears as his HUD flashed a 404 error.

Meanwhile, on the Russian plane...

The Major was five miles from the bomber when he heard a new and unfamiliar bang. He tried in vain to look behind him, but from the corner of his eye, he could see a great crack forming on his left wing. He knew at once what it meant. The epoxy that kept the plane together was never meant for such extreme temperatures. His plane was literally coming apart at the seams. How he wished he was in an Avro Arrow now. With a sickening CRRRACK the wing tore itself free from the plane and the C-35 went into a death spin. The Tupolev continued on, oblivious.

Amidst the alarms, klaxons and spontaneous fire, Frasier bit his lip and thought of Maverick. Then suddenly he remembered his training. One of the Powerpoint slides had mentioned that the ejection seat was NOT made by Lockheed, but by a British company! Hope sprung in his breast; perhaps he might survive this ordeal, and achieve his dream of becoming a cyberathelete! In desperation he lunged at the ejector handle. The seat roared upward into the void and while the canopy didn't deploy, it didn't matter; the cheap glass was shattered easily by his hundred thousand dollar helmet.

The Major breathed a sigh of relief as the chute deployed and slowed his descent. He took one last glance at his plane, which plummeted like a meteor into the ground and exploded. It was a bittersweet sight. At the very least, he thought, he had saved half a billion dollars from the clutches of the poor, the needy, the nonwhite and Quebec. The thought made him smile.

The ejector seat landed with a soft thud on a river bank, narrowly missing some pine trees. He looked around at the bright sky, the green grass and river teeming with fish. This unfamiliar hellscape sent chills of fear down his spine. If I liked the outdoors, he thought, I would've joined in the army.

Thus began Major Laurier's desperate bid for survival in the harsh subarctic summer, where temperatures could drop to nearly below freezing. In the distance, a beaver roared.

Kwyndig posted:

Well, everybody around here gets the big 3" chrome ones. I guess I underestimated the stretching capacity of the human anus.

edit: You still shouldn't use a trailer hitch ball as a butt plug, as it lacks a flared base.

Dunno-Lars posted:

I would say the vehicle it is attached to is a flared base.

Kumo posted:

Richard Spencer gets clocked by a Black Bloc protestor:

https://twitter.com/MrTrunney/status/822580347409932290

Bud K ninja sword posted:

clearly he did nazi that coming.

8-Bit Scholar posted:

A Biblical Dynasty Warriors game would be loving sweet.

Do not pursue Moses.

morallyobjected posted:

what was the context of all these F-35 stories anyway? was there a topic just to bash on them or something?

KM Scorchio posted:

"In the distance, a beaver roared." gets me every drat time.

morallyobjected posted:

what was the context of all these F-35 stories anyway? was there a topic just to bash on them or something?

Shugojin posted:

Also IIRC grover really, really, really liked the F-35, presumably because it's basically his house with some wings stuck on it

hackbunny posted:

Yes! a long-running thread in GBS


I politely tittered at the mention of the Avro Arrow

Dejawesp posted:

Why does D&D and PYF turn everything I love into poo poo!?

GonadTheBallbarian posted:

It was already poo poo. They just wafted the smell over your way.

Big Centipede posted:

Years ago I was fooling around with this girl and I pushed a grape Jolly Rancher into her slick rear end in a top hat with my tongue and it popped back out quickly like when you squeeze a wet bar of soap. I held it in my teeth and passed it into her mouth.

Picnic Princess posted:

Centipedes are truly strange creatures.

Big Centipede posted:

We inject venom through modified legs

CROWS EVERYWHERE posted:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yshClIiz-cw

"Tchaikovsky, Nazis aren't instruments."
"Yes they are, and I am going to punch 21 of them."
"Tchaikovsky no."
"Tchaikovsky yes. (Begins punching Nazis) Tchaikovsky always yes!!"

Lil Mama Im Sorry posted:

"if you punch a nazi, don't u sort of become a nazi? and if you burn a limo, don't u sort of become a limo?"

"I burned a limo once and now, since then, rich men are inside me all the time"

Stupid_Sexy_Flander posted:

Looks like an SCP but it's apparently a sculpture made from 10k knives the UK cops have seized over the last year or two.

Screaming Idiot posted:

They made one out of guns here in the US but a policeman touched it and it came to life and shot a black teenager.

Now Gungolem has a job on Fox News as a pundit.