Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Friday, October 20, 2006
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
1 in 6 billion
Suck on that, John Smith.
Note: Chas Rover is not American, but if there ain't any Chas Rovers in the USA, there ain't anywhere else, I'd wager.
Friday, September 22, 2006
I have declared war.
I have decided to declare war on the Sun. I don't like how it sits there, 10,000 times larger than us. It's a threat. I've done the maths and it is only a matter of time before it gets angry and wipes us out of the solar system. We need to take the initiative and strike at it before it strikes at us. Plus, it's yellow and causes me pain simply for looking at it. That's not sane behaviour, in my book. It's gone rogue.
Last known picture of the ISS and Shuttle Atlantis before their mysterious disappearance. Scientists believe culprit may be lurking in the background.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
A metaphor mixed in its prime
We'd like to be sure everything on our plate is nailed down so we can wrap this up and hit the showers.
Deserves an award!
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Quote of the day
I’m flying to the US this afternoon. I’m going to try to smuggle a jar of Nivea cream on board. Then, half-way through the flight I’m going to stand up and scream, “Look out! There’s a balm on board. Salve yourselves! Aarrrggh!”
Funny
Almost as funny as a Fark commenter the other day on why Americans shouldn't FrogBash: "If it wasn't for the French, we'd be speaking English right now"
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Xbox 360
Now that I have turned my back on my second life, I have time to read books, go for walks, go to the gym, socialise and generally live a more rounded and complete life.
In honour of that, I have bought an Xbox 360 to save me from having to face life. My Xbox Live gamer tag is now displayed on the sidebar. Come kick my arse online sometime.
In honour of that, I have bought an Xbox 360 to save me from having to face life. My Xbox Live gamer tag is now displayed on the sidebar. Come kick my arse online sometime.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Chas is dead
At least the World of Warcraft variant is. I haven't enjoyed playing WoW for a long time and was only continuing due to the social aspects and, frankly, addiction. I cancelled my subscription a few weeks back and had until September already payed for. I decided to see if I could find any compelling reasons to resubscribe in that time. Unfortunately, a mutiny occurred in the guild I was a part of. The instigators are supposedly in their twenties, but their logic and way of expressing concerns they had was adolescent at best. Persoanlly, not being aligned with the officers of the guild, coupled with some of those officers' reaction to the mutiny (which was just as bad), I found myself in a unique position to just get the fuck out of dodge. If you no longer enjoy the company you find yourself in, you have to go, no matter how hard that is, regardless of the individual friendships that still exist.
So, Chas, the World of Warcraft warrior, is no more. It feels good.
And here, for the sake of completion, is the final tale of Shac The Tank:
It's a sad day indeed, but it was bound to happen, and at last it has: the Ecclesiastical Authorities are on to me. They have discovered that my ministry is nothing but an elaborate tax rort and a thinly veiled attempt at getting around bigamy laws. Whether I was ratted out by some Judas or whether it was my "David Koresh 4 Lyfe" bumper sticker is irrelevant; the gig is up.
But I have some time before the narcs get through the temple door. I have barricaded it using the comatose drunken hobos who call this place home. The good constabulary are debating the merits of using a bulldozer to break the door down. One guy worries about the loss of hobo life. One ponders whether it is acceptable to destroy the door of a place of worship. The general consensus is that it would be a shame to damage the door, as it was made from the last of the Canadian Redwoods using child slave labour who were forced to work on the door until they died (hey, it was the most cost effective solution! The money I saved on the door meant I could get my gold plated merc: “The Chasmobile”! I think we can all agree, it was worth it).
So while they argue amongst themselves, I’ve got Harry “Gonads” McKenzie blasting out “Waltzing Mathilda” on the organ and I humbly present to you:
The Last Resurrection of Shac the Tank
With one last blow from his mighty axe, Shac slew the creature. He took a slug from his hip flask and waited for the usual sense of achievement, the elation of the kill, the sense of moral vindication and the warm glow of comradery. But something was wrong. None of that was there. Confused, Shac looked down at the creature dead at his feet. Why had he killed it? Why was he here again?
As had happened so often in the last three long years after his historic Hogger killing, someone had burst into the tavern where he was drinking and proclaimed, “Shac, we need your help!” As always, Shac was too drunk to understand, and thought someone was offering the next round of drinks. Gladly accepting, Shac constantly found himself in far away lands, storming some castle or compound, killing everything, presumably for some good reason. Each adventure provided Shac with priceless enjoyment. Until now. Shac didn’t even know what species the dead thing bleeding on his majestic plate boots was. All he knew of the place he found himself was that it was called The Temple of Emo and there sure had been a lot of whinging since they’d all arrived. Some were complaining that the leaders were idiots. The idiots had taken time out from drooling to complain that they should be leading. One guy was running around naked, dong slapping the creatures and, to the surprise of all there, had actually killed 2 of them with this method: one had died laughing, the other from shame.
Things certainly weren’t like the old days. The group of adventurers was moving on to the next area, to continue the killing and the crying. As Shac followed, his mind drifted back to past adventures, looking for answers.
***
The first great adventure, of course, had been the Hogger killing. With Hogger dead on the ground, Shac felt the elation of achievement and basked in the warm glow of the crowd’s cheering. It was when Shac realised that the warm glow was progressively getting hotter, that he noticed he was still on fire. (You will remember that Shac killed the mighty Hogger by setting his own alcohol infused urine on fire and burning the beast to a cinder). In fact, he was completely on fire. An ironically cold sensation rushed through Shac’s body, as he realised he was going to die. “This can not be happening”, Shac thought. He was too young to die. He was now too popular to die. He was a hero! Heroes don’t die! He had learnt in Warrior school that it was the greatest dream of every warrior to die in a blaze of glory, sacrificing their life for the greater good.
“Fuck that”, thought Shac. Here he was dying in a blaze of his own alcoholic urine, naked in front of a crowd of people. Panicked, Shac started running towards the nearby river, passing through a faire, much to the shock of the faire’s patrons. (Incidentally, this is how Shac invented streaking). But he wasn’t quick enough. The fire won its battle against Shac, and he fell to the ground dead.
As the last moments of life faded from Shac, a soft female voice whispered in his mind, “Pleiades wishes to resurrect you. Do you accept?” What was this?
“Of course I accept”, Shac thought and suddenly found himself alive and well, standing next to a beautiful priestess. “Um, hi?”, Shac offered.
“Hi there, I saw you kill Hogger, that was pretty impressive. I’m Pleiades, by the way”, the priestess said.
“Nice to meet you. I thought I was dead”
“You were. We priests have made a deal with the Gods. We can ask them to bring people back from the dead, so long as they want to come back and, in return, we have to have sex with one or two of the Gods or their buddies every now and then. Mainly on religious holidays. It’s a bit demeaning, but it’s a small price to pay.”
“Wow. Thanks, by the way. Um, how come I feel funny, though? Are there side effects to being resurrected?”
“You’re just sober. Resurrection will do that”.
“Sober! Sweet fuck!”, screamed Shac as he ran full pelt to the nearest inn.
***
Back in the Temple of Emo, Shac smiled as he remembered the good times he had had with Pleiades, pausing only to wrench his axe out of the skull of the…um, whatever it was…he had just killed. He looked around. The other adventurers around him were all cheering his name. Except for a sickly looking gnome who was complaining that the name Shac violated some sacred law from his homeland. Shac looked back at a scene of carnage. Hundreds of these things were dead on the floor. While Shac had been daydreaming, he must have been helping kill them. He wondered whether they deserved to die to someone who not only didn’t know the reason he had killed them, but wasn’t even paying attention when he did. “Their loss, I suppose”, thought Shac, “They’re either too stupid to make friends with a priest, or they don’t want to come back and I’ve done them a favour. Why would you not want to come back?”. Shac never had an answer for this before, but a small voice in his subconscious was threatening to speak up. As Shac moved on to the next kill zone, he caught a glimpse of himself reflected in a pool of blood. He hadn’t realised how much his shoulders were slumped these days, and how haggard his eyes looked, even partially obscured by his massive helm. The reflected image reminded Shac of somebody…
***
Pleiades’ resurrection trick was a godsend for Shac. He could now fight while even more drunk, safe in the knowledge that should he die, his priest friend would be there to bring him back. Shac began to think that anything was possible. His first task consisted of getting himself killed in every corner of the world. He died to rats, gnolls, kobolds, murlocs and even a paladin. He then went on a three day bender and died of alcohol poisoning, just to prove it could be done. Each time a soft female voice would whisper in his mind, “Pleiades wishes to resurrect you. Do you accept?” and each time Shac wondered why the question was even asked and awoke sober and ready to drink again. Pleiades and Shac had made friends with a mage named Ven Ding who could conjure alcohol out of thin air, so Shac was never sober long.
While searching for something to die gloriously to in Desolace one winter day, Shac came across the mighty Horde champion, Rexxar. With his shoulders slumped and eyes weary, Rexxar walked the land with his giant pet bear, tired of fighting and tired of war. “Loser”, thought Shac, who rambled up to Rexxar and asked him to return the 20g he spent on Rexxar’s mother night before as he wasn’t satisfied with her service.
Rexxar didn’t even twitch. He simply said, “I was like you once. Do you know the last person I killed?”
“The audience at your last stand up comedy gig?”, Chas slurred.
“My priest. Do you know why?”
“He told you you were too old for him to love anymore?”
“You will one day.”, and with that Rexxar cut Shac cleanly in two. Lengthwise.
A soft female voice whispered in Shac’s mind, “Pleiades wishes to resurrect you. Do you accept?”
Shac said, “Yes”.
***
The reflection in the blood reminded Shac of Rexxar, that’s who. Could it be the day had come that Shac was tired of fighting, tired of war? Shac emptied his hip flask and asked Ven to refill it. Ven immediately launched into a tirade about not being appreciated, about the worthy contributions mages make to any endeavour, about how he hadn’t gotten any new sandals for months and blah, blah, blah…Shac certainly was tired of the whinging. While Ven continued, Shac turned his attention to the man the group had slaughtered their way to get to, who was sitting calmly in a decrepit stone throne, next to a balcony that looked over a massive cliff face.
“Who the fuck is this?”, Shac asked the group.
“This is Lord Victor Wristslash. The scourge of The Temple of Emo.”, someone answered.
“Oh right, yeah, I went to high school with him. He once called my mother fat. So, apart from that, why are we here to kill him?”
After much shuffling of feet, twiddling of thumbs, some erring and arring and the sounds of a fight between the nude guy and the gnome about who had killed more dragons, someone offered, “Um, because we want his shoes?”
Shac walked up to Victor, sighed and asked, “Hey Victor, been a while. How’s things?”
Victor replied, “Not bad, Shac, yourself?”
“I could be better, to be honest. My life has become one kill after another and I’m not sure why I bother anymore.”
“I know how you feel, dude, people come in here, day after day, kill all my friends, kill me and take my stuff. Then, after a while, the spell placed upon this temple by a miserable bastard of a God that I once offended resurrects us all and another group comes in. There’s an entire factory of goblins in the back room churning out shoes to keep up with the demand”
“Holy shit! That’s fucked up!”
“I’ll tell you what, how about I just give you my shoes and we can call it even?” With that, Victor took off his shoes and handed them to Shac.
The second he took them, the crowd erupted in a cacophony of complaints. “How come you get them, I deserve them more than you?” said the gnome, “This is bullshit, I killed 87 Shades of Whinge and I haven’t had new shoes since yesterday” said a night-elf violinist as a tear ran down her cheek, “I’ve never gotten any loot”, said the nude guy.
Shac turned to Victor, a moment of quiet understanding passed between them, and he said, “Mate, you owe me one for all those cracks you made about my mother at school”
Victor replied, “Yeah, that’s fair enough.”
“Keep the good looking priest over there alive, will you?”
Winking, Victor whispered, “No probs, Shac, she’s certainly an upgrade to your mum!”
Shac let out a tired laugh and walked over to Pleiades and handed her the shoes just as Victor bellowed, “I’ll settle this! If you can defeat me, the goblins will provide shoes to each and every one of you! Prepare to face my minions. Let the games begin!”
With that, the group took their usual positions behind Shac, ready to lay into Victor while Shac bombarded him with verbal taunts about the size of his shoes, angering him enough that he didn’t think once about simply killing the weakest, but deadliest, members of the group first. Just as Victor was about to attack, a cross dressing druid launched into a tirade about Shac still using his axe and not carrying a shield and that if Shac could do that, he should be able to be in moonkin shape and blah, blah, blah…
Shac eyed Victor and said, “Kill him first, then the ones in the dresses”, and he jumped off the balcony to his death. Above him, Victor wiped the group off the face of the planet, except for Pleiades, to whom he said, “Hey there, gorgeous, res Shac up and we can all go for a beer”
“Great idea” Pleiades responded, “ I can wear my new shoes! They’re gorgeous. Can your goblins make them in red, though?”
Taking her by the shoulder, Victor replied, “Sure thing, while they’re doing that, come meet my puppy”.
Down at the base of the cliff, as Shac lay crumpled and bleeding, a soft female voice whispered in Shac’s mind, “Pleiades wishes to resurrect you. Do you accept?”
Shac said, “No”.
So, Chas, the World of Warcraft warrior, is no more. It feels good.
And here, for the sake of completion, is the final tale of Shac The Tank:
It's a sad day indeed, but it was bound to happen, and at last it has: the Ecclesiastical Authorities are on to me. They have discovered that my ministry is nothing but an elaborate tax rort and a thinly veiled attempt at getting around bigamy laws. Whether I was ratted out by some Judas or whether it was my "David Koresh 4 Lyfe" bumper sticker is irrelevant; the gig is up.
But I have some time before the narcs get through the temple door. I have barricaded it using the comatose drunken hobos who call this place home. The good constabulary are debating the merits of using a bulldozer to break the door down. One guy worries about the loss of hobo life. One ponders whether it is acceptable to destroy the door of a place of worship. The general consensus is that it would be a shame to damage the door, as it was made from the last of the Canadian Redwoods using child slave labour who were forced to work on the door until they died (hey, it was the most cost effective solution! The money I saved on the door meant I could get my gold plated merc: “The Chasmobile”! I think we can all agree, it was worth it).
So while they argue amongst themselves, I’ve got Harry “Gonads” McKenzie blasting out “Waltzing Mathilda” on the organ and I humbly present to you:
The Last Resurrection of Shac the Tank
With one last blow from his mighty axe, Shac slew the creature. He took a slug from his hip flask and waited for the usual sense of achievement, the elation of the kill, the sense of moral vindication and the warm glow of comradery. But something was wrong. None of that was there. Confused, Shac looked down at the creature dead at his feet. Why had he killed it? Why was he here again?
As had happened so often in the last three long years after his historic Hogger killing, someone had burst into the tavern where he was drinking and proclaimed, “Shac, we need your help!” As always, Shac was too drunk to understand, and thought someone was offering the next round of drinks. Gladly accepting, Shac constantly found himself in far away lands, storming some castle or compound, killing everything, presumably for some good reason. Each adventure provided Shac with priceless enjoyment. Until now. Shac didn’t even know what species the dead thing bleeding on his majestic plate boots was. All he knew of the place he found himself was that it was called The Temple of Emo and there sure had been a lot of whinging since they’d all arrived. Some were complaining that the leaders were idiots. The idiots had taken time out from drooling to complain that they should be leading. One guy was running around naked, dong slapping the creatures and, to the surprise of all there, had actually killed 2 of them with this method: one had died laughing, the other from shame.
Things certainly weren’t like the old days. The group of adventurers was moving on to the next area, to continue the killing and the crying. As Shac followed, his mind drifted back to past adventures, looking for answers.
***
The first great adventure, of course, had been the Hogger killing. With Hogger dead on the ground, Shac felt the elation of achievement and basked in the warm glow of the crowd’s cheering. It was when Shac realised that the warm glow was progressively getting hotter, that he noticed he was still on fire. (You will remember that Shac killed the mighty Hogger by setting his own alcohol infused urine on fire and burning the beast to a cinder). In fact, he was completely on fire. An ironically cold sensation rushed through Shac’s body, as he realised he was going to die. “This can not be happening”, Shac thought. He was too young to die. He was now too popular to die. He was a hero! Heroes don’t die! He had learnt in Warrior school that it was the greatest dream of every warrior to die in a blaze of glory, sacrificing their life for the greater good.
“Fuck that”, thought Shac. Here he was dying in a blaze of his own alcoholic urine, naked in front of a crowd of people. Panicked, Shac started running towards the nearby river, passing through a faire, much to the shock of the faire’s patrons. (Incidentally, this is how Shac invented streaking). But he wasn’t quick enough. The fire won its battle against Shac, and he fell to the ground dead.
As the last moments of life faded from Shac, a soft female voice whispered in his mind, “Pleiades wishes to resurrect you. Do you accept?” What was this?
“Of course I accept”, Shac thought and suddenly found himself alive and well, standing next to a beautiful priestess. “Um, hi?”, Shac offered.
“Hi there, I saw you kill Hogger, that was pretty impressive. I’m Pleiades, by the way”, the priestess said.
“Nice to meet you. I thought I was dead”
“You were. We priests have made a deal with the Gods. We can ask them to bring people back from the dead, so long as they want to come back and, in return, we have to have sex with one or two of the Gods or their buddies every now and then. Mainly on religious holidays. It’s a bit demeaning, but it’s a small price to pay.”
“Wow. Thanks, by the way. Um, how come I feel funny, though? Are there side effects to being resurrected?”
“You’re just sober. Resurrection will do that”.
“Sober! Sweet fuck!”, screamed Shac as he ran full pelt to the nearest inn.
***
Back in the Temple of Emo, Shac smiled as he remembered the good times he had had with Pleiades, pausing only to wrench his axe out of the skull of the…um, whatever it was…he had just killed. He looked around. The other adventurers around him were all cheering his name. Except for a sickly looking gnome who was complaining that the name Shac violated some sacred law from his homeland. Shac looked back at a scene of carnage. Hundreds of these things were dead on the floor. While Shac had been daydreaming, he must have been helping kill them. He wondered whether they deserved to die to someone who not only didn’t know the reason he had killed them, but wasn’t even paying attention when he did. “Their loss, I suppose”, thought Shac, “They’re either too stupid to make friends with a priest, or they don’t want to come back and I’ve done them a favour. Why would you not want to come back?”. Shac never had an answer for this before, but a small voice in his subconscious was threatening to speak up. As Shac moved on to the next kill zone, he caught a glimpse of himself reflected in a pool of blood. He hadn’t realised how much his shoulders were slumped these days, and how haggard his eyes looked, even partially obscured by his massive helm. The reflected image reminded Shac of somebody…
***
Pleiades’ resurrection trick was a godsend for Shac. He could now fight while even more drunk, safe in the knowledge that should he die, his priest friend would be there to bring him back. Shac began to think that anything was possible. His first task consisted of getting himself killed in every corner of the world. He died to rats, gnolls, kobolds, murlocs and even a paladin. He then went on a three day bender and died of alcohol poisoning, just to prove it could be done. Each time a soft female voice would whisper in his mind, “Pleiades wishes to resurrect you. Do you accept?” and each time Shac wondered why the question was even asked and awoke sober and ready to drink again. Pleiades and Shac had made friends with a mage named Ven Ding who could conjure alcohol out of thin air, so Shac was never sober long.
While searching for something to die gloriously to in Desolace one winter day, Shac came across the mighty Horde champion, Rexxar. With his shoulders slumped and eyes weary, Rexxar walked the land with his giant pet bear, tired of fighting and tired of war. “Loser”, thought Shac, who rambled up to Rexxar and asked him to return the 20g he spent on Rexxar’s mother night before as he wasn’t satisfied with her service.
Rexxar didn’t even twitch. He simply said, “I was like you once. Do you know the last person I killed?”
“The audience at your last stand up comedy gig?”, Chas slurred.
“My priest. Do you know why?”
“He told you you were too old for him to love anymore?”
“You will one day.”, and with that Rexxar cut Shac cleanly in two. Lengthwise.
A soft female voice whispered in Shac’s mind, “Pleiades wishes to resurrect you. Do you accept?”
Shac said, “Yes”.
***
The reflection in the blood reminded Shac of Rexxar, that’s who. Could it be the day had come that Shac was tired of fighting, tired of war? Shac emptied his hip flask and asked Ven to refill it. Ven immediately launched into a tirade about not being appreciated, about the worthy contributions mages make to any endeavour, about how he hadn’t gotten any new sandals for months and blah, blah, blah…Shac certainly was tired of the whinging. While Ven continued, Shac turned his attention to the man the group had slaughtered their way to get to, who was sitting calmly in a decrepit stone throne, next to a balcony that looked over a massive cliff face.
“Who the fuck is this?”, Shac asked the group.
“This is Lord Victor Wristslash. The scourge of The Temple of Emo.”, someone answered.
“Oh right, yeah, I went to high school with him. He once called my mother fat. So, apart from that, why are we here to kill him?”
After much shuffling of feet, twiddling of thumbs, some erring and arring and the sounds of a fight between the nude guy and the gnome about who had killed more dragons, someone offered, “Um, because we want his shoes?”
Shac walked up to Victor, sighed and asked, “Hey Victor, been a while. How’s things?”
Victor replied, “Not bad, Shac, yourself?”
“I could be better, to be honest. My life has become one kill after another and I’m not sure why I bother anymore.”
“I know how you feel, dude, people come in here, day after day, kill all my friends, kill me and take my stuff. Then, after a while, the spell placed upon this temple by a miserable bastard of a God that I once offended resurrects us all and another group comes in. There’s an entire factory of goblins in the back room churning out shoes to keep up with the demand”
“Holy shit! That’s fucked up!”
“I’ll tell you what, how about I just give you my shoes and we can call it even?” With that, Victor took off his shoes and handed them to Shac.
The second he took them, the crowd erupted in a cacophony of complaints. “How come you get them, I deserve them more than you?” said the gnome, “This is bullshit, I killed 87 Shades of Whinge and I haven’t had new shoes since yesterday” said a night-elf violinist as a tear ran down her cheek, “I’ve never gotten any loot”, said the nude guy.
Shac turned to Victor, a moment of quiet understanding passed between them, and he said, “Mate, you owe me one for all those cracks you made about my mother at school”
Victor replied, “Yeah, that’s fair enough.”
“Keep the good looking priest over there alive, will you?”
Winking, Victor whispered, “No probs, Shac, she’s certainly an upgrade to your mum!”
Shac let out a tired laugh and walked over to Pleiades and handed her the shoes just as Victor bellowed, “I’ll settle this! If you can defeat me, the goblins will provide shoes to each and every one of you! Prepare to face my minions. Let the games begin!”
With that, the group took their usual positions behind Shac, ready to lay into Victor while Shac bombarded him with verbal taunts about the size of his shoes, angering him enough that he didn’t think once about simply killing the weakest, but deadliest, members of the group first. Just as Victor was about to attack, a cross dressing druid launched into a tirade about Shac still using his axe and not carrying a shield and that if Shac could do that, he should be able to be in moonkin shape and blah, blah, blah…
Shac eyed Victor and said, “Kill him first, then the ones in the dresses”, and he jumped off the balcony to his death. Above him, Victor wiped the group off the face of the planet, except for Pleiades, to whom he said, “Hey there, gorgeous, res Shac up and we can all go for a beer”
“Great idea” Pleiades responded, “ I can wear my new shoes! They’re gorgeous. Can your goblins make them in red, though?”
Taking her by the shoulder, Victor replied, “Sure thing, while they’re doing that, come meet my puppy”.
Down at the base of the cliff, as Shac lay crumpled and bleeding, a soft female voice whispered in Shac’s mind, “Pleiades wishes to resurrect you. Do you accept?”
Shac said, “No”.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Zizou is the new Chuck Norris
Boom, headshot
It may have cost France a World Cup, but Zinadine Zidane ended his career the way he played it: With complete football skills, masterful leadership, inspiring talent, uncanny goal scoring ability and moments of gut churning violence.
Bring on his movie career. I, for one, would like to see Zidane, Cantona and Vinnie Jones in the one movie. A Guy Ritchie Bond film, perhaps.
Um, excuse me while I ring my agent...
It may have cost France a World Cup, but Zinadine Zidane ended his career the way he played it: With complete football skills, masterful leadership, inspiring talent, uncanny goal scoring ability and moments of gut churning violence.
Bring on his movie career. I, for one, would like to see Zidane, Cantona and Vinnie Jones in the one movie. A Guy Ritchie Bond film, perhaps.
Um, excuse me while I ring my agent...
Monday, June 05, 2006
And boy, will they be famous!
| Your Famous Last Words Will Be: |
 "I dunno, press the button and find out." |
Monday, April 10, 2006
Mad Language
Holy Shit, this is amazing: Poems that highlight the madness of English spelling
What's crazier? The English language, or the fact that these poems can be read at all?
What's crazier? The English language, or the fact that these poems can be read at all?
We must polish the Polish furniture.
He could lead if he would get the lead out.
The farm was used to produce produce.
The dump was so full that it had to refuse more refuse.
The soldier decided to desert in the desert.
This was a good time to present the present.
A bass was painted on the head of the bass drum.
When shot at, the dove dove into the bushes.
I did not object to the object.
The insurance was invalid for the invalid.
The bandage was wound around the wound.
There was a row among the oarsmen about how to row.
They were too close to the door to close it.
The buck does funny things when the does are present.
They sent a sewer down to stitch the tear in the sewer line.
To help with planting, the farmer taught his sow to sow.
The wind was too strong to wind the sail.
After a number of injections my jaw got number.
Upon seeing the tear in my clothes I shed a tear.
I had to subject the subject to a series of tests.
How can I intimate this to my most intimate friend?
I read it once and will read it agen
I learned much from this learned treatise.
I was content to note the content of the message.
The Blessed Virgin blessed her. Blessed her richly.
It's a bit wicked to over-trim a short wicked candle.
If he will absent himself we mark him absent.
I incline toward bypassing the incline.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Proof
No good deed goes unpunished:
$1.4m bag left on bench
A guy returns a bag with 1.4 million dollars of shit in it to some absent minded Kanucks. His reward: "You have to be a real man to return that bag. Even the bag is expensive. We're really, really thankful to that guy."
Never let the truth get in the way of a good story:
Rock, what rock? Drunk driver misses Uluru
Picture this. It's the middle of the night, you're pissed, you're lost and you ask a cop for directions to Uluru. He points out the 340 metre rock your headlights are illumiating is said national treasure. Writer of the article: "It casts an imposing shadow over the flat landscape around it." At night?
$1.4m bag left on bench
A guy returns a bag with 1.4 million dollars of shit in it to some absent minded Kanucks. His reward: "You have to be a real man to return that bag. Even the bag is expensive. We're really, really thankful to that guy."
Never let the truth get in the way of a good story:
Rock, what rock? Drunk driver misses Uluru
Picture this. It's the middle of the night, you're pissed, you're lost and you ask a cop for directions to Uluru. He points out the 340 metre rock your headlights are illumiating is said national treasure. Writer of the article: "It casts an imposing shadow over the flat landscape around it." At night?
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Double You Tee Eff, Mayte?
It seems the evil spammers have come up with the notion that Shaney chains will help them get their product through spam filters. Either that, or someone is trying to activate the sleeper assassination agent planted in my brain:
It was followed by an embedded image with the actual info. Didn't work, still found it in my spam folder...and I haven't killed more people than usual.
seedy battlefield to nonsense tab of storehouse was overwrought typist in infirm extortion import! lilyclaim the with cafe, the consume, predatory are guise mug in novel, the wrapper the city hall holdup thankful triceps adelineate, the dark to clothespin tactically skewer, the intersection attribution of contradict lightness assistant professor stanchailing was condition and? dropout whinerole, the and was masculinity but crazy an distance compilation exquisitely the oval to timid stock certificate,deployment to as foodstuff hoarsely, so that by! noise pollution, sicpunk rock diphtheria magic to entirety. to in outfielder this start a the protester maudlin slumber party mudparentage snorkeling interpose of dialect as transistor the tormentor a oxide, with editor indulgent crybaby
Monday, March 20, 2006
Say no more.
According to all-knowing psyhcological testing, the God of Small Pocket Lint and the kid who tried to steal my mojo, I am slightly more introverted than extroverted. For the times I am the former, here is a nice article with some excellent insights:
http://www.theatlantic.com/doc/200303/rauch
http://www.theatlantic.com/doc/200303/rauch
Friday, March 03, 2006
Tanked
Note: The character I play in World of Warcraft is named Chas. I have made him the "spiritual advisor" to his guild, which just means I sprout some tangential rantings on our guild website. Lately, I have been penning stories of a character named Shac. So, basically, Shac is the literary version of Chas, which is the digital version of the real me. It's getting complicated. I liked this story, so I present it here for longevity. Some/most of it will be completely meaningless unless you know a bit about World of Warcraft.
The Parable of The Alcoholic Tank
"Your momma's so fat, she could tank Ragnaros nude!", shouted The Bully. That's what started Shac on his path. The fact that it was true, and that she had once survived two Flames of Ragnaros while wearing nothing but a Crimson Felt Hat, helped steel Shac's resolve. Furthermore, The Bully, named Victor, would later hole himself up in his castle, which he had inherited from a rich aunt, bitter about not being able to go on raids with his guild as he refused to spec out of shadow. That settled it, Shac would become a warrior and one day take his revenge.
However, despite 60 seasons of training in the Warrior arts, Shac sucked. Despite his best efforts and his mother's gentle advice, delivered using a red hot poker and a scourge, Shac had trouble killing even the lowly rats which were in abundance around the Dwarven sector. What's more, Shac found he was losing aggro on Kobolds, despite being the only person attacking them. Shac was miserable.
Then, when Shac was nearly at the end of his rope, while chasing a particularly wily rat that had run into the local tavern, Shac ran into Gimboid, the Dwarf. An axe to the side of the face, a short run from the graveyard and an offer to buy drinks for the rest of the evening later, Shac sat down with the surly dwarf with a tankard of mead in front of him, and told him his sad story.
"Clothes", Gimboid advised, "that's the first step to becoming a mighty warrior. Then maybe some armour." This was news to Shac. "A weapon and a shield wouldn't go astray, either" Could it be that simple?
It wasn’t. Despite following Gimboid’s advice, Shac still had trouble. For starters, he had trouble removing the heavy plate trousers to bare his arse, as he had been taught in Taunt lessons. Even if he did manage to get them down, he couldn’t get them back up again quick enough to avoid a sword blow to his white meat. Dejected, Shac went back to the tavern and took up a new vocation: drinking.
He was a natural. Despite being a human, he could drink dwarves under the table. He quickly became noted in the community for his rambunctious singing and tall tales of rat hunting and Kobold slaughter. He was considered to be somewhat the village idiot, but people from all over would visit the tavern nonetheless to hear Shac’s jokes about Gimboid’s mother.
It was during a particularly animated telling of how Gimboid’s mother was having it off with Garr, thus explaining where all the lava surgers come from, that Shac fell off his bar stool, landing heavily on his arse. When he got up, he noticed that he had landed on a rat, killing it. His first kill! He didn’t inform the crowd of this achievement, however, as they were under the impression that the only reason there were rats still living was because Shac hadn’t run into them all yet. But the kill changed Shac. Suddenly he was invincible. He could do anything. And he knew what to do next. He downed the flagon of ale in his hand, ordered a Theramore Tequila as a chaser and two jugs of Tyr’s Hand Pale Ale for the road. With a steely look in his eye he addressed the crowd, who had all gone silent. “I’m off to kill Hogger”, Shac slurred, and he stumbled out the door. The crowd followed, in awe, for no-one had ever even pondered that such a feat could be done.
The road to Hogger’s encampment was long and arduous and Shac tired. So much so, that at each tavern along the way that Shac and the crowd entered to quench their thirst, Shac left behind a piece of his armour as it was all too heavy. At the Inn Like Flynn, Shac lost his sword in a quick hand of poker and his shield fell into the Searing Gorge when Shac was explaining how Gimboid had invented the frizbee as a method of getting a drinks tray to his mother’s mouth, as he couldn’t get past her gut to hand it to her.
So, by the time Shac and his followers arrived at the edge of Hogger’s camp, Shac was completely nude. It had been a while since the last the last pitt stop, and Shac was busting. He relieved him self on a nearby tree.
“What. The. Fuck are you doing little man?”, the tree said. Shac looked up, still urinating (it had been a long night of drinking), at a giant Hogger shaped blur.
Not quite understanding the situation, Shac lit up a pipe of some fine Moonglade Medicinal Herbs, and said “Shut up, it’s cold, allright”, took a puff of smoke and coughed through his pipe, launching the hot embers downwards through the air. They landed square on his still gushing member, causing Shac to scream in pain, the crowd to cringe in horror and his piss to catch alight due to its massive alcohol content.
The scene that ensued is now one of legend. As Shac flailed about desperately trying to find a way to douse his private parts, Hogger swung his axe trying to decapitate the source of this outrage. However, thanks to Shac’s intricate drunken swerving, Hogger found he was having trouble connecting with the small, naked, fire-breathing demon. Hogger was also confused, as he had generally thought demons’ mouths were higher up. So incensed was Hogger about not being able to kill this annoyance that he had not bothered to put out the fire on his leg. Noticing this, Gimboid, who like the rest of the crowd was running about trying to avoid Shac’s rain of fire, whipped his dwarven member out and followed Shac’s lead, spraying Hogger with his own rain of fire. Noticing this, Shac, who had given up trying to stop pissing and was now “going with the flow”, called out “Gimboid, your piss is weak, dude!” and he burst out laughing, causing some villagers to have to take evasive action.
Before long, most of the crowd had also followed Shac’s lead and 40 people all rained fire down on Hogger simultaneously, while Shac kept Hogger focused on him with verbal taunts about his heritage and burning piss jokes. Soon enough, Hogger’s armour was weakened by the uric acid and his flesh was burnt away. Hogger was dead.
And that, dear reader, is the story of the one and only Hogger kill. That one event gave us the phrases “Piss weak” and “Go with the flow”. It was the origin of using a warrior to hold aggro, the word “tank” (from “being tanked”), the 40 main raid group and, of course, the flame thrower.
The Parable of The Alcoholic Tank
"Your momma's so fat, she could tank Ragnaros nude!", shouted The Bully. That's what started Shac on his path. The fact that it was true, and that she had once survived two Flames of Ragnaros while wearing nothing but a Crimson Felt Hat, helped steel Shac's resolve. Furthermore, The Bully, named Victor, would later hole himself up in his castle, which he had inherited from a rich aunt, bitter about not being able to go on raids with his guild as he refused to spec out of shadow. That settled it, Shac would become a warrior and one day take his revenge.
However, despite 60 seasons of training in the Warrior arts, Shac sucked. Despite his best efforts and his mother's gentle advice, delivered using a red hot poker and a scourge, Shac had trouble killing even the lowly rats which were in abundance around the Dwarven sector. What's more, Shac found he was losing aggro on Kobolds, despite being the only person attacking them. Shac was miserable.
Then, when Shac was nearly at the end of his rope, while chasing a particularly wily rat that had run into the local tavern, Shac ran into Gimboid, the Dwarf. An axe to the side of the face, a short run from the graveyard and an offer to buy drinks for the rest of the evening later, Shac sat down with the surly dwarf with a tankard of mead in front of him, and told him his sad story.
"Clothes", Gimboid advised, "that's the first step to becoming a mighty warrior. Then maybe some armour." This was news to Shac. "A weapon and a shield wouldn't go astray, either" Could it be that simple?
It wasn’t. Despite following Gimboid’s advice, Shac still had trouble. For starters, he had trouble removing the heavy plate trousers to bare his arse, as he had been taught in Taunt lessons. Even if he did manage to get them down, he couldn’t get them back up again quick enough to avoid a sword blow to his white meat. Dejected, Shac went back to the tavern and took up a new vocation: drinking.
He was a natural. Despite being a human, he could drink dwarves under the table. He quickly became noted in the community for his rambunctious singing and tall tales of rat hunting and Kobold slaughter. He was considered to be somewhat the village idiot, but people from all over would visit the tavern nonetheless to hear Shac’s jokes about Gimboid’s mother.
It was during a particularly animated telling of how Gimboid’s mother was having it off with Garr, thus explaining where all the lava surgers come from, that Shac fell off his bar stool, landing heavily on his arse. When he got up, he noticed that he had landed on a rat, killing it. His first kill! He didn’t inform the crowd of this achievement, however, as they were under the impression that the only reason there were rats still living was because Shac hadn’t run into them all yet. But the kill changed Shac. Suddenly he was invincible. He could do anything. And he knew what to do next. He downed the flagon of ale in his hand, ordered a Theramore Tequila as a chaser and two jugs of Tyr’s Hand Pale Ale for the road. With a steely look in his eye he addressed the crowd, who had all gone silent. “I’m off to kill Hogger”, Shac slurred, and he stumbled out the door. The crowd followed, in awe, for no-one had ever even pondered that such a feat could be done.
The road to Hogger’s encampment was long and arduous and Shac tired. So much so, that at each tavern along the way that Shac and the crowd entered to quench their thirst, Shac left behind a piece of his armour as it was all too heavy. At the Inn Like Flynn, Shac lost his sword in a quick hand of poker and his shield fell into the Searing Gorge when Shac was explaining how Gimboid had invented the frizbee as a method of getting a drinks tray to his mother’s mouth, as he couldn’t get past her gut to hand it to her.
So, by the time Shac and his followers arrived at the edge of Hogger’s camp, Shac was completely nude. It had been a while since the last the last pitt stop, and Shac was busting. He relieved him self on a nearby tree.
“What. The. Fuck are you doing little man?”, the tree said. Shac looked up, still urinating (it had been a long night of drinking), at a giant Hogger shaped blur.
Not quite understanding the situation, Shac lit up a pipe of some fine Moonglade Medicinal Herbs, and said “Shut up, it’s cold, allright”, took a puff of smoke and coughed through his pipe, launching the hot embers downwards through the air. They landed square on his still gushing member, causing Shac to scream in pain, the crowd to cringe in horror and his piss to catch alight due to its massive alcohol content.
The scene that ensued is now one of legend. As Shac flailed about desperately trying to find a way to douse his private parts, Hogger swung his axe trying to decapitate the source of this outrage. However, thanks to Shac’s intricate drunken swerving, Hogger found he was having trouble connecting with the small, naked, fire-breathing demon. Hogger was also confused, as he had generally thought demons’ mouths were higher up. So incensed was Hogger about not being able to kill this annoyance that he had not bothered to put out the fire on his leg. Noticing this, Gimboid, who like the rest of the crowd was running about trying to avoid Shac’s rain of fire, whipped his dwarven member out and followed Shac’s lead, spraying Hogger with his own rain of fire. Noticing this, Shac, who had given up trying to stop pissing and was now “going with the flow”, called out “Gimboid, your piss is weak, dude!” and he burst out laughing, causing some villagers to have to take evasive action.
Before long, most of the crowd had also followed Shac’s lead and 40 people all rained fire down on Hogger simultaneously, while Shac kept Hogger focused on him with verbal taunts about his heritage and burning piss jokes. Soon enough, Hogger’s armour was weakened by the uric acid and his flesh was burnt away. Hogger was dead.
And that, dear reader, is the story of the one and only Hogger kill. That one event gave us the phrases “Piss weak” and “Go with the flow”. It was the origin of using a warrior to hold aggro, the word “tank” (from “being tanked”), the 40 main raid group and, of course, the flame thrower.
Monday, February 13, 2006
Tarot. Rhymes with snot.
| You Are The Devil |
 You don't represent evil, but you do represent the animalistic side of humans. You demonstrate what happens when we listen to our first instincts. At times you tend to be materialistic and hedonistic, giving in to temptation. Admit it, you're guilty of acting first - and forgetting to think later! Your fortune: Right now, you may be having a difficult time as a result of choices you have made. You need to think about what's important in your life, and discover what chains you down. It is the time to acknowledge your faults and take steps to overcome them. It's also the time to let go of any fears or inhibitions that are holding you back. |
That's Chas, all right. And here is the downside of having a name that morons think is female in real life (I am male, ffs! I hope):
| You Are The Empress |
 You represent the ideal female figure: beauty and nurturing. You bring security and harmony to many. At times, you are also a very sensual person. You are characterized by love, pleasure, and desire. Your fortune: You need to take some time to think about the role of commitment in your life. It's possible you need to commit more to others, or deal with how others have treated you. It is very important for you to support your friends and family right now, difficult as it may be. You may need to look at your relationship with your mother, or your relationships as a mother. |
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
Transparent background
This flickr set of desktop backgrounds that match the computer's surrounds is brilliant!!!
Monday, February 06, 2006
Partaying Comments
The situation: A BBQ/House Party/Piss Up, hosted by a high school friend, Frank (not his real name)
The players: High school friends, uni friends of the host, hangers on etc
The protagonist: Cute girl.
The antagonist: Me
Me notices cute girl at party. He finds her vaguely reminiscent, but puts it down to either the fact she has been to previous pissups or the misfiring neurons that give Me constant deja-vu. Me waits patiently for the right time to mosey on over and have a chat.
Me: Hi
CG: Hi, howz it going?
Me: Good, good. (nostalgic pause for effect) So how do you fit in with social puzzle here?
CG: (not so nostalgic pause, but definitely for effect). You and I went to high school with Frank. We were in the same year.
Me: (holy mother of god, damn you years of substance abuse, "is it possible to salvage anything now?" pause of infinte length and pwnage) Gurgle.
Yep, that one's going in a script one day.
The players: High school friends, uni friends of the host, hangers on etc
The protagonist: Cute girl.
The antagonist: Me
Me notices cute girl at party. He finds her vaguely reminiscent, but puts it down to either the fact she has been to previous pissups or the misfiring neurons that give Me constant deja-vu. Me waits patiently for the right time to mosey on over and have a chat.
Me: Hi
CG: Hi, howz it going?
Me: Good, good. (nostalgic pause for effect) So how do you fit in with social puzzle here?
CG: (not so nostalgic pause, but definitely for effect). You and I went to high school with Frank. We were in the same year.
Me: (holy mother of god, damn you years of substance abuse, "is it possible to salvage anything now?" pause of infinte length and pwnage) Gurgle.
Yep, that one's going in a script one day.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
For whom the bridge tolls
For whom the bridge tolls
Originally uploaded by ChasRover.
No posts, but a 3G 2 megapixel phone and the glory that comes with it.
Tuesday, January 24, 2006
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