realizing that a dirk is essentially a dork has profoundly changed my world view.
my first experience with this was in the Batman Nintendo ES game. somebody with access to the instruction manual proclaimed the disk-like weapon that splits into 3 a “dirk.” that really isn’t what a dirk is but sure enough the manual really does call it that. which means batman is pretty much throwing dorks at his foes. imagine how close he must have come to using Burt Ward as a weapon back in the 1960s.
a few years later while playing final fantasy threex my elder brother had the hero Relm use the “sketch” attack against Hidon and totally screwed up the game, resulting in multiplicity of rare items like gem box and illumina, but more importantly HUNDREDS of dirks. which as we know MIGHT AS WELL be hundreds of dorks. think of the damage you could inflict with THAT much unrepentent corniness on your side.
players these days apparently gripe about the heroes Cyan, Gau and Umaro, but at least they have honor enough to REFUSE to use a dirk.
Sabin also doesn’t use dirks either but he also spend s a lot of time rushing bums and in most cases I consider that disreputable.
Although in this specific instance Sabin engages a foe who used to be a regularish person who was SO greedy that he transformed into a lizard, that is not always the case.
(I don’t know what chief programmer Kan Naito is talking about here, I just think the way he says the title at the start is funny)
The sega genesis game Landostoka contains, as a clue, the poemoid
What happens when dorks get dangerous?
I mean that “skeletons” is the correct answer, not that skeletons themselves make wise decisions. You solve the puzzle by ignoring all the skeletons except the one that isn’t white, then beating it up. In skeleton lore, having a dumb color makes you a dork, which is a sin against God requiring your immediate termination. Skeletons have also historically been racist. that is just history. In fact all these skeletons reveal themselves as dorks just by the way they JUMP without extra animation frames to go up stairs, but since that doesn’t come across in a screen shot I cannot for the moment effectively criticize them for that.
initially I misremembered the skeletons here as being knights possibly due to this corny line being permanently enshrined in my consciousness
and consequently referred to knight lore rather than skeleton lore.
This is important because my next point referred to the Ultimate Play The Game game “Knight Lore,” which involves no knightly deeds or insults whatsoever, only slowwwwly traversing a castle named “knightlore” which is itself pretty dorky, without even the assistance of any dirks. instead your fragile traverser becomes a werewolf who seems to be no less fragile but does waste an extra 3-6 seconds of his life and yours changing to and back after the approximate amount of time it takes to walk across five rooms. All times are relative because any moving objects apart from the protagonist in a room slows it down considerably.
this game achieved massive critical acclaim. From dorks.
I cannot confirm a rumor that the werewolf’s appearance and ill-acclimation to video games inspired Paul “TX Critter” Fusco to create ALF, I can merely start that rumor right now.
complete freedom to pick up objects and drop objects, unless touching them destroys you
COINCIDENTALLY, there is another nearly identical game called Batman that involves Batman doing the exact same thing, just in a cave. Batman no longer needs to use dorks as weapons; verily, he can’t use weapons at all and is victimized by everything, for he has become the dork.
Don’t read that. The story is that a bunch of characters you won’t see are somewhere else because batman can’t keep track of his stuff and apparently is so clever that he placed fatal duplicates of his stuff as traps for, apparently, himself, in his own cave
they DARE to make THIS the box art for such a game.
People associate disappointing licensed games with the nes, and it seems like a miracle that Batman got a good one, dorks notwithstanding, but he actually beat the simpsons and ninja turtles to point-missing nonsense by several years
1980s computer software companies were just cranking this trash out. Since Ultimate Play The Game pioneered this isometric interface amidst a crown of minimalist black-void background side-view games people were in awe of it even though the computers of that period were too wimpy to do anything interesting with it, and apart from that Ultimate Play The Game’s developers were more about abusing players than entertaining them. This was made plain when with access to more powerful Nintendo hardware and calling themselves Rare Ltd, a self-labeling improvement, I admit, rather than making a GOOD isometric adventure game they made Roger Rabbit, Wrestlemania and Battletoads instead. Also Snake Rattle n Roll which actually is isometric but I don’t known enough to hate that enough to complain about it. However they licensed Knight Lore to Jaleco who made an even worse version of the game than they did.
I can’t remember what I was talking about. Stay away from video games. They will ruin your life even if you don’t have time to play them anymore.
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10-28-2022 updating this website may not be feasible again before novemeber. do you care? somebody told me you did.
this brief scene seems to indicate that the second speaker is knowledgeable about the locations of numerous individual graves, which is unusual, but not impossible.
these remind me of the stuff I thought was clever when I was seven years old. at the back of every school bus was a so-labeled “Emergency Door.” I would point at it and say something like “get it? ’emergen-KEY door!” I can absolutely imagine myself drawing a gravestone that says “ED U. Dead” into one of my incomprehensible comic strips, and understanding so little about the world that I thought it might as well be inside a coffin.
A popular “joke” of the period was to refer to a non-existent book titled “The Yellow River,” ostensibly authored by a person named “I.P. Daily/Freely” but I presented a more accurate version by “P. Din Creek.” It didn’t matter to me that I had never heard of anyone named Creek or, outside of the Phantom Tollbooth, Din. A joke didn’t mean the same thing to me as anyone else, and nobody informed me of that, and I had to figure it out across 20 or soish years of being a complete loser, and bloom into a partial loser. I should feel inspired that somebody can live fully into adult-hood without determining what a joke is and still accumulate the competence to be able to afford and maintain a home. Or perhaps feel worried that there may be many of these people voting leaders into office, potentially being those leaders. Possibly I have even experienced unhinged, emoji-saturated lectures from some of them on facebook and youtube.
this one seems too rooted in reality. It isn’t dumb enough for it to be funny how funny it isn’t.
that is a bit worse, and consequently better, although I personally would have opted for “eatum bullet” or “biton bullet” or, if space permitted, “gottum shottum byum bullet”
oddly enough two weeks prior, the ED U. Dead stone was out in front on the ground next to Bob D. Headed and I was dismayed that it was gone when I returned to take a picture of it, then could not contain my amusement when I discovered it again, then more so after considering where it had relocated to.
this jovial grim reaper and meeply illustrated grave marker are disturbingly inspired, given the context. Unless I imagine that the skeleton handled all the decorating and wants to watch and see who is impressed, and then it all works. I accept that they are boneheads.
I know when I personally snayack i also balance a plate with a sandwich on one knee while simultaneously holding another sandwich in a hand and continuing to shove popcorn into my mouth with the remaining hand even while stating that i have problems when i do that, instead of chewing it, thereby causing the popcorn to tumble out of my mouth. How is that the bed’s fault that this guy is a moron? I appreciate that the adjustable bed owner is both aware of and gloating at his counterpart, whom he only refers to as “that guy.” Perhaps that guy’s name is That Guy. He LOOKS like That Guy. In a still picture it looks like his head has been edited onto someone else’s body as a gag to make him look stupid. But this is all natural! I don’t know who he thinks he is fooling with that napkin, he looks like he just hurried over from a dentist appointment, leaving in disgust after being told to cut back on popcorn. Perhaps that’s why he didn’t feel like chewing.
notably, the dork in the craftmatic bed doesn’t have any popcorn, he has a banana! Somewhat more nutritious, much less messy. He also went and got a tray, which definitely isn’t part of the package being sold here. Maybe the problem isn’t so much what bed you buy, more how much of a slob you are. Which isn’t to say I recommend That Guy take up bananas because I am convinced he would find some way to slip on its peel while still in the bed and then blame the bed for it.
even with the disdain he still refers to the product as a “quality flat bed.” Craftmatic ads always use that phrase, consistently, and I never had any clue why. Is the idea that hey, we’re not comparing this electric monstrosity to a RINKETY DINKETY flat bed. The people in those things are so worthless they can’t even get the popcorn in their mouths before dropping it, much less possess the poise to hold a plate on a knee, why would we trust them to complete the payments on one of these?
a “good night’s sleep” is only the THIRD perk mentioned of having a craftmatic bed, even though it is rare to see somebody actually sleeping in one of these advertisements, as they are too busy doing other things that you shouldn’t do in a bed anyway.
The real reason That Guy can’t sleep is because he just drank a bottle of soda and the bed is covered with sandwich crumbs and popcorn. The plate is probably still in there. In fact Craftmatic Guy doesn’t even say he sleeps in the bed, only that he’s “no dummy.” Because dummies advertise hard wood furniture and are slightly more convincing actors because I at least expect them to look unnatural. Then he takes off his glasses and lies back, as if he is going to sleep but obviously he isn’t because the light’s still on and the covers are still off!
years later craftmatic ads still emphasized the fact that you can buy your own eating tray separately even though you can use that tray in a regular bed. You can even use that tray if you don’t have a bed at all! Although more curious is that this man is so well organized that he keeps the bed immaculately made in the absence of his wife nagging him to do that, and is able to climb on to the bed AND set up a tray without disturbing that, yet he also WEARS SHOES in the bed!
there’s that dumb tray again! and the user is actually under the covers for once (presumably entering… to Win!) and so I cannot check for shoes.
the real problem with this advertisement series however is that it fails to disclose the full implications of the curse attached to using one of these beds.
curse in progress. the text calls it a massage and claims it to be optional but I would be curious to interview those who have experienced its effects.
Alas they rarely have much interesting to say afterward. I reckon they didn’t get much CHOICE about turning into dopes! Yet they should have known! Your body doesn’t turn all purple and featureless with lines rapidly going through it when you are being massaged! Right? Well MINE sure doesn’t.
the guy with the shoes, instead of saying “because i already have one” he should be saying “because i do not want to turn into a dope!” i will praise craftmatic for accurately representing how annoying and pushy their unsolicited calls probably are, but transforming people into dopes without their consent is hard for me to get past. And doing it WITH their consent is probably even worse because whoever wants to be a dope obviously deserves to be in jail and Craftmatic should pass that information along.
NO! Don’t go along with that request!
Turning into a dope is right up there with transforming into a skeleton, really.
although at least there is no item combination in castlevania circle of the moon which causes the hero to transform into a dope. for one thing since that game was released several years before dopes began appearing in my business that would mean I owed Konami royalties on dopes.
I hypothetically REFUSE to pay! Even IF that would allow me to blame somebody else.
More questions i pondered recently, were craftmatic adjustable beds designed to turn people into dopes or was that an unexpected side effect? and is it worse to BE a dope to begin with or to get turned into one?
AND, assuming it is possible to revert a craftmatic’d dope back into a “normal” dumb old imp person, what would happen to a natural dope if the same process were used on it? and what GALL for dopes that weren’t people at one point to assume they are natural, they aren’t. I can’t believe it oh pardon ME dope, do craftmatic dopes FAIL the dope purity test? i can’t stand it who do those dumb dopes think they are? dopes?!
they think they are the MASTER dope race? dopes are so dumb they LOSE every race because instead of moving they just stand around at the starting line smiling at people. that’s right (wrong) KEEP smiling, like you ENJOY this, like you planned it all along, which I doubt you are capable of.
you would need a butler to do it for you! and you have no money to pay one! only the original rich people who transformed into “inferior” sub-dopes have it! ha-ha, ho,ho, teehee humperdink.
actually obscene affluence and servants is the only way all those weird trays, perfectly made beds and pajama-clad freakadoodles who never seem to be out of them make sense. Maybe we SHOULD change them into dopes and kick them out.
ARRRRRGH of COURSE you do! Turning into a dope IS a problem! The QUALITY of your bed prevents it! WHY are you trying to do that and WHY are you telling ME about it?! Maybe you’re a dope already!
http://bimshwel.com/?p=347
I forgot that I wrote a more comprehensive, comprehendable piece about why “children’s” music is dumb over two years ago. I could say it has not gotten less dumb in that period, but this here is based on older text than that. Maybe I am multiple people and each wants to say the same thing differently.
People have a tendency to blast any old noise to the extent that no one can hear themselves think or others speak. This happens at restaurants and at terrible parties. It makes me uncomfortable and inclined to leave. Others, who think themselves influential visionaries, via the ease with which they are influenced by things which were crummily visualized, think “I should do this at MY terrible party too! Or just whenever I play any music for any reason.”
Perhaps someone who expresses individuality by purchasing a mass-produced trinket that insults people other than the buyer, that the semi-enslaved assemblers probably couldn’t read.
Whenever I am in a car with someone who is fond of their own musical taste, even one I do not hate, they always have to reduce the volume if they want to hear me say something. And then it goes right back up again. Perhaps in the hope that I will stop saying something.
Children, I would expect, have sharper ears than people who’ve been deliberately dulling themselves for years. But I hear the terrible baby-aimed music very, very loud out my window from the neighbor’s house. I used to be terrified of them hearing me listening to music, even though I think my music is good, and so I would greatly reduce the intensity to near inaudibility if such people were themselves audible to me. They seem to have no such reciprocal fear.
Is there some deep musicialness to really “feel” with those songs? Something so subtle you can only appreciate it by blowing out your speakers? I say nay. I hear one main instrument, one voice and occasionally a really simple bass line. Curiously, I have heard much the same sort of dewwww-dadewww, dewwwww-dadewwww bass in the country music the adults of the house listened to when the children were not visiting. This was a few years ago by now, but the sister of mine is looking to launch a new baby imminently, and of course this is the most important topic. Forget the matter of bringing a new person and an additional parent into an 87 year old home that we desperately need to sell before it crumbles to dust in a town we could already no longer afford to live in: I, a 31-year old demi-human living with its own parents might have to deal with some undesirable music.
My brother Iga, at a low age, was made to listen at, and came to insist upon hearing, albums by the self-described “troubadour” Raffi. As grating as those could become, at least Raffi put his unique raffiness into his songs. It wasn’t just mass marketed focus group council of militant neglectful parents approved rubbish. He may have turned down big money from mass market focus groupers. I can appreciate that, even if Joshua Giraffe haunts me to the day I die.
And when that was over, if more Raffi really was necessary, we had a DIFFERENT Raffi tape to put in afterwards. We had Baby Beluga AND Everything Grows. I know you can fit more material onto a typical disc medium than our old audio cassettes, but these people didn’t try, despite their songs being short, plentiful and totally public domain, they’ll be done in 20 minutes and start over again.
I never expected that these people outside my window complaining about how their seagrass is taller than their hydrangeas could seem reliefesque.
My cousin in Florida had the EXACT same album as the neighbors for his children as my Connecticut neighbors, even though every one of those songs has been recorded and pressed in dreadful compilations thousands of times. Why would this version have influence 2000 miles long? I overheard that it was Baby Einstein brand, which shocked me. Not so much because I never considered knowing the muffin man a pre-requisite to understanding the functions of time and space, but because I thought that company only made mind-mushing television programming. I didn’t know they did sense-softening singalong tapes too.
It has been said, a lot, that Albert Einstein did not make out very well in basic schooling. I believe calling an early childhood development product “Baby Einstein” is correct in this aspect, at least, but only because kids who watch and listen to it will be total morons if it has its way and not because the later school material bores them. You might argue that if he had neglected his work in favor of saying “pollywollydoodle” all the day we never would have had nuclear weapons, but I’m sure Alan Oppenheimer would have figured it out eventually.
Likewise, if Baby Einstein had never been born, someone else would have had these exact same sappy singers singing the same sappy songs. By now we’ve had 20 years of Blues Clues, Elmo and Dora types, an army of “positive influences” who smile all the time, never say anything negative or unordinary, and kids aren’t any smarter or nicer. If anything, they are nastier because their concept of conflict resolution is so warped, and they think anyone who has a grievance with their unique special smiling regularly-self-photographed selves is a deranged “hater” whose criticism cannot possibly have merit.
I used to know a bunch of people who were obsessed with being offended on behalf of others or condemning with complete confidence havers of “terrible opinions.” They made little effort to socially justicify their condemnation, because the reason was evident to club members who already agreed with them, and no one else mattered, and thus nothing was proven to anybody. And they might point to a sentence like that one and say it justifies such responses, without explaining why, and then get offended when asked for an explanation. I would blame that on too much internet sooner than television, but more television certainly would not have helped.
I suppose you could say that I, despite my technologically inferior/implied superior upbringing, am perpetually angry, and look harder than anyone for things to have problems with. It is not so. I find them without looking.
And Baby Einstein does not specify “Albert.” It could be Bob Einstein, TV-I-Don’t-Watch’s Super Dave Osborne, who comes across as kind of a bonehead. And he even has a brother named Albert, who changed his last name specifically to clutter this website entry with me explaining that.
That was all based on an experience I had in 2006. November 2006, four months after a complaint to the Federal Trade Commission from the Campaign for Commercial Free Childhood or something like that about media products that purport themselves to make babies smarter whose claims are utterly unsubstantiated, which eventually led to the demise of the brand. I never heard about that. Did you? I just found out now when I went to find pictures of the rubbish. No, this stuff isn’t treated like it is a big deal. “Oh you say cheap junk from stores is bad for us? What else is new.” Unless it’s a NIPPLE that no toddler could discern was a nipple nor have any reason to feel offended by, considering that it is their instinctual inclination to try and acquire nourishment from them, nobody cares about damaging Our Kids. Hey hey don’t use The F word around my precious biological commodity! Rated E for Everyone!
By the way butt butt butt butt butt butt poop booger fockers
Even a product that serves a purpose and that is supposed to make things less messy and unpleasant is vulgar for no reason.
Actual doctors requesting that we cease a specific deliberate action get no traction unless they are used in the promotion of another product. People will BUY something because a doctor was quoted saying so, but never NOT buy something. Lunchables, Count Chocula and Sunny Dee are still available, right? I realize that I eat fried chicken and drink coke every week, and also am greatly put off by certain words. I am a lost cause.
Supposedly the Disney company recalled the Einsteinian products in 2009 after a research study suggested the things were actually of no benefit to babies, but this recall occurred two years after the company demanded that the study be retracted. And again this was not major national news despite the millions of parents who were duped by the marketing. I have not read the study, and I do not need to, and I do not need to look at “scores” on weird tests to figure out that this nonsense is way too stupid to benefit anybody of any age. I think the “harm” will be cumulative, based on months and months of non-interactive simplistic nonsense that some unreliable outside party insists is beneficial based on this or that thing that the parent of the consumer cannot ask for proof of, and probably would not ask for if they could. Parents love to brag about how smart their babies are while simultaneously treating these babies like they are idiots at best, and maintenance-heavy toys at worst. Babies get smart by overcoming challenges, unless the only way to make the “challenge” bearable is to dullen their perception. This stuff may no longer be sold, but, again, I only found this out when I looked it up just now in 2014. Parents who can’t find braindead dvds for sale (and I am sure they CAN) will locate and submit their children before something just as dumb on broadcast television without considering it might be a bad idea. Those bad scores may be related to some other thing that the sort of parent who buys those dvds does.
But forget Einstein. He is just a meaningless stereotype to people. A goofy non-specifically-European man who never combed his hair, but was smarter than me, smarter than you, because he did some science stuff, right? and was named Einstein. Surely we can find music recommendations unassociated with pseudo-religious devotion.
Gosh the Bob Dylan of regular music isn’t even all that good at it. What does that remark even mean? The guy moans a lot and has messier hair than Einstein?
I didn’t think he had 7 GOOD songs, but apparently those 7 are not only GREAT but there are 63 others that are also GREAT, and presumably some others that were great but not enough so to get on the list. Otay, so why do I only get to hear the 3 or 4 terrible songs when someone else is choosing them? I suppose I might have looked inside this magazine for insight but I was concerned about being able to use this specific complaint in a website entry three years after it was printed.
As far as being sick of the wiggles goes, “jump in the jumpy house” sounds too dumb even for them. And make no mistake, I am here to bury the wiggles, not to praise them. They might request that I jump in the big red car or inquire as to whether I could point my fingers while I did it. I am sure Mr. David is not remarkably worse than others in his field, and may have had nothing to do with this advertisement, but I am not comfortable with marketing that tries to connect something new and untested with something old that may not be questioned.
Golly bees I sure have opinions about minor aspects of child rearing! Thankfully I am not at risk of impregnating anybody or becoming pregnant.
In more relevant news, somebody attempted to give the pregnant party a baby-accessible i-phone control device, and fortunately she declined it.
Being near a pregnant person does remind me that there is positivity and chances for renewal in the world: I realized I have not worn sweat pants in years.
When I first saw this picture, I thought it was a woman pregnant with a green skeleton. I have been told this baby expects to come out with flesh and organs, but it is good to be prepared.
Rattle me bones! (it’s a stupid video, watch out (or don’t watch at all))
That skeleton offers up to you ALL of its treasure, provided you do not rattle its bones. Is that really so much to ask? it is quite a generous offer. You can have your FILL! It makes but one request of you. And yet still we continue to rattle its bones. The world can learn a lot from that skeleton.
The poor thing’s disabled, for beet’s sake. First of all, it’s a skeleton. It was born without any skin or muscle mass. Also, it’s missing a leg and an eye. Skeletons don’t have eyes anyway, but this one’s eye space was apparently injured in combat badly enough that the skeleton covers the region out of personal shame.
an unusual property of the skeleton’s shame is the less it wants to be seen, the more apparent its presence becomes. It went to hide in the dark and its bones lit up, so that little could be seen except the bones. Is that fair?
See the way those cruel children laugh at the friendly undead seafarer! Do not blame yourself for your injury, skeleton! Accept your [lack of] body for what it is. I wonder if it only gives up its treasure because it has low self-esteem and thinks it has to do things like this to have friends.
Those kids are not your real friends, skeleton! They are only using you to further their own pirate careers (consider the striped shirt of the one on the left). I worry that someday they’ll push that skeleton too far… what’s this? A visitor?
a ratty hat, ratty eye patch, dessicated parrot corpse, and a pipe which presumably smells heavily of skeleton. So you can ultimately have your fill of absolute rubbish. About the only thing we can learn from that skeleton is what strategies to avoid when attempting to curry the favor of others.
You, sir, have a clear anti-skeleton bias and I have difficulty taking your opinion seriously. It is not for you to decide what possessions may be treasured by this excitable glowing bloodless mariner or its admirers. I suppose you also would disparage the captain’s dancing skills and the merit of the trumpet skeletons.
B) One’s dancing skills are necessarily impaired by being affixed to a ship’s wheel.
C) I would indeed dispute the merit of trumpet skeleton, on account of their lack of sufficient lung capacity (i.e. any at all) and labial equipment to operate said instruments. Not only that, it’s an easily avoidable situation under any circumstances, as a less woefully resourceful skeleton would simply take advantage of its natural accoutrements and strike its ribs in the manner of a mallet-based idiophone. Clearly this was a decidedly incompetent crew all around, even by the considerably lowered skeleton standards.
bones, you have something to add?
Is that all? I’m trying to defend your species and you waste my time with that?
the only thing dumber than a skeleton interrupting my business to get all up in my business and announce that it used the Medical Herb would be… oh, now who is it?
…would be using the Medical Herb on another skeleton! A backwards skeleton! Arrrrf not only was that stupid, it took up a lot more space and many more additional seconds! And I don’t necessarily need to see your creepy breathing gyrations, either! We established earlier that you don’t have lungs! what’s your point? I am busy here! Oh what’s this? Someone else is trying to get my attention now! Busy busy busy. I will finish reprimanding you later!
I REFUSE to view that photo!
What’s so great about the dumb old Medical Herb anyway?
ATIPHOGIHIOGHEGIHAAAAAAAAAAAANDONHISFARMHEHADSOMEDUCKSEIEIO The ultimate treachery! I thought skeletons were my friends but they have been turned against me. I assumed they were trying to excuse their recreational marijuana usage by claiming it was for “medical” purposes, but this bowtie shuckster would never advocate a personal enjoyment bringing measure of any kind for anyone but itself. It must be living in Oregon and working overtime to turn the now legalized leaf into a most unscrupulous sort of profit-making venture. Not only has it lied to these skeletons about the Herb’s ability to regenerate flesh, now I have to deal with undead potheads. What horror.
Speaking of horror
My favorite part about Rattle Me Bones is that it was rejected as a meme by the high meme council. Yes indeed people on the internet can make an obscene elitist bureaucracy out of ANYTHING. It has used the word “notable” to exclude something from a collection of haphazard trash. It thinks it’s wikipedia. And wikipedia itself thinks it’s something that it isn’t.
I have long claimed that what now conspicuously-label themselves as “memes” are manufactured and only persist because persons imagine they can leech popularity by exalting and imitating something they don’t legitimately care about, with only the insincerity and grabs for empty fame being organic or memetic, but I suspected I was just being spiteful. It is “good” to know there are actually people who consider themselves more qualified to judge memes than others, who control when one is in or out. From the looks of the header, “know your meme” actually is a registered trademark (and apparently Rattle Me Bones isn’t). Something that exists by endlessly remixing someone else’s material with someone else’s material, or even just exploiting someone else’s remix, is concerned I’m going to try and use its good name for my own profit. Or maybe it’s a joke. The good thing about the meme club is that it is consistently impossible to tell what is “supposed” to be stupid and what just is.
This makes me want to go to law school and torture myself for however many more years just so I can become a judge and throw out the case when Cheezburger, Inc tries to ruin somebody’s life in court. And then I’ll drown myself in pudding because I became a judge for a really stupid reason.
It is also “nice” to know that I could write a page about pine cones or dopes, have it be rejected (I would insist on that) from there but still evidently gain enough google traction that it shows up in image searches.
In my own case, I distinctly remember Rattle Me Bones and its trumpet skeletons from 1989 (one benefit to my age, I suppose) and don’t need an advisory board to tell me it is too stupid to talk about publicly. That’s the whole point.
Also good is that the lowest, most unspicable candidate for the meme-knowing board of directors is now a skeleton and likely ineligible for employment. Maybe 2013 can be different after ehhh
I would like to say we are both smart enough to know that isn’t how it works, but I also like using our intelligence disparity to show how awful the bow tie creature is. In fact, I don’t think things can get any dumber.
Well I would not go that far.
However, I am definitely going very far away.
Prior to then I should acknowledge my unconsulted collaborator, whose permission I did not seek to reuse his skeleton related comments or surround them with pictures of more skeletons, since I presumed he had better things to do.
It occurs to me that the children’s treasure map (which they apparently mistrustfully consult again after arriving at their apparent destination, as though to make absolutely certain that they have read things correctly, suggesting a similar dubiousness concerning its factual accuracy) curiously enough leads to a ship at sea, if admittedly not very far from the coast. The map also appears to be fairly old, which suggests that said ship has been there a while, and furthermore was considered even at the time it was drawn up to be a reasonably permanent fixture. I can only assume that the skellingtons were dumb enough to A) draw a map leading to a “treasure” aboard their ship, B) not realize that a ship is typically not a fixed geographical fixture, and C) fail to realize the importance of raising the anchor for proper navigation, thereby inadvertently assuring that their ship is a fixed geographical feature.
Furthermore, Käpt’n Klappermann would appear to be one of the infamous fraudulent “skeleton medalists” that have been decried on this site in the past. I can only assume that the medal in question is in fact
the bow tie fool’s “worst” place award, as strongly suggested by the styleless scapegrace’s apparently being in league with the boney blackguards.
Everything makes sense at last. In the respect that we all know that it makes no sense and is terribly stupid.
hello there. I have somehow ended up in a house without internet for the week. However, if I walk five minutes along the road and sit on a bench beside it with no homes in view I can get it just fine. Which sounds good but consider this regrettable thing that it has allowed me to post now instead of considering if is a good idea for six more days.
Graveyards are profoundly depressing in the respect (RESPECT I say) that even in death you will be defined by your personal monetary value, or what your family struggles to make its value appear to be. The people with the highest social rank have the biggest, most elaborate graves, even though they are no more dead than anyone else trapped in a box and hidden there. This is the grave yard near Yale university, which means it’s full of decorated military leaders, government officials, deans and professorial types. It’s no smarter or talenteder than any other cemetary, but it sure seeks to convince me that it is with these huge grey rocks. Oh mab I wish *I* had a huge grey rock! I’m so jealously reverent!
I have visited graveyards before. I always have a good time and a positive attitude.
The rich dead even have fences to keep out the poor dead.
I entered the cemetary because I was looking for a more efficient walk toward my apartment from destinations that seemed to lie in a direct line from it but that I always needed to take etch-a-sketch-esque-a-skesque routes to get to and from. The local google map showed that I could walk directly through the yard, but there was no door at the other end (it probably got dead and is buried in there somewhere), which I did not realize until I was at the place where it ought to have been, resulting in my taking a full graveyard tour and even longer to get back where I came from than usual. I should not complain for google misleading me as there is an underpass near my home that has been blocked due to “road work” for almost two years, and I regularly witness cars drive toward it and come back 30 seconds later, because, I assume, some electric direction system or another told these motorists they could go that way, because in theory it was unblocked at one point, and I find that amusing. The time I was almost arrested for being too close to the highway at a place I could walk to from my apartment, the police driver dropped me off at a place that I could not walk to because she didn’t realize the road was blocked, and it might be ascertained that she or her car lives in town.
If I have a grave I want it to have a practical function. Something that would have value to people who are still alive and have feelings. Maybe I can have a stone conveyor grave that will help people get out of the cemetary faster.
I don’t want a grave at all, but if I had the money to make a big stupid expensive grave I would want it to be as tacky as Falco’s. Something that people could laugh at in a miserable place like this that was deliberately laughable.
But I do not wish to have a grave. Don’t make me deal with your pets, don’t give me a sandwich with white goop on it, don’t identify me with “mister” or my middle name initial letter and think you’re endearing yourself to me, don’t toss unlabeled video links at me and expect me to click them, don’t bury me when I am dead unless you murdered me and are hiding the evidence. That’s just sensible. Consider this my will if you kill me before I write one.
Although if you want to be safe, rent a boat and go out to sea and toss the body overboard. Most likely the corpse will arrive at a shore far from the murder site long after you did it.
A parking space for a deceased’s automobile. That wooden obstruction is to keep a really dumb goat from escaping.
Bird, you’re too heavy! You are knocking that stone over! SHOW SOME RESPECT, BIRD! This is hello’d ground! That means it is fully saturated with greetings and doesn’t need your empty chatter. Do you know what will happen if you disrespect a wealthy dead person from two centuries ago who had lived in comfort among a repressed population of peasants? Somebody alive now will get really self-righteous about it for some reason!
Here lies Eli Whitney, famous for every street in town being named after him. He also invented the cotton gin, which helped inebriate cotton-picking slaves so they would temporarily forget that the effort-eliminating invention didn’t actually give them a break in any way. (note to self: look that up once you have regular internet access again to see if it’s historically valid (note to ross ice shelf: please thank ross for giving me a place to store my ice))
Rinkety dinkety graves for meeply folk. These may not even be secured in the ground. I think they are propped against the wall. These are the most interesting graves to me, though, because they are in all different shades of brown. Unlike eli the whitniest, their roaming undead spectres can’t afford to pay someone to clean off their demise mark once in a while.
Nobody is named Henrietta anymore. Whenever I see the name I immediately think of anthropomorphized farm animals. I can’t imagine anybody named Henrietta that isn’t a cow or a pig. Even this has a picture of a bird on it. The person got dead recently, in 2007 but seemed to have lived a long life, since 1916 and was appreciated enough to get this generous sized granite lump and so I think can handle such treatment from me, even if she wasn’t rich enough to get a fence.
I like this place because there is no pavement and it reminds me of the video game Hexen. This is one area that might actually resemble how the grave zone initially looked and doesn’t have any crass modernism mixed in. Of course Hexen is a video game about slaughtering undead wizards and wraiths (sadly, no skeletons) and I actually shouldn’t find anything comforting about that and in any event it was made in 1995. Even by video game standards that is only the equivelant of one century. But this does make something significant occur to me.
Suppose there was an undead uprising. For all the respect their retainers demand the dead themselves show little to us in rudely screeching when they see us and detaching their heads from their bodies to spit fireballs, or worse, keeping their heads and throwing bones at us. We should not bury them intact all close to each other! And we should be suspicious of anybody who defends their right to not be dismembered.
Also note there are ALWAYS imps present. I didn’t bury no imps. Who let this happen? We really should prohibit imps from entering cemetaries. Any imp that tries should be forced to present its papers. Obviously imps don’t carry paper around and aren’t licensed to exist anyhow. That should keep them out.
A few intervals ago I mentioned Al Terzi, and how I had no real memory of him post-1989. After typing his name into the Internet, I discovered that he scares me now.
in part, no doubt due to resembling the ghastly photograph-print on the old Lipton tea box, which scared me then. That scared me partially because of the dual tone, high contrast yet faded greys used, Terzi does not look like this, but he reminds me of other aspects of the lipton picture that didn’t necessarily scare me, so he is scary by association.
Though I implicated the colors, the angle, facial expression and hat are nonetheless alarming.
Once I found out where these were in a store, I couldn’t go near them. i would see the red and yellow from a distance and not go down the aisle. (this was at the time also a good way of avoiding a match with Hulk Hogan)
I used to love the lipton iced tea, but when I learned to identify logos and discovered this was the same as the scary guy company, I stopped drinking it immediately, and continued not drinking it long after Lipton had ceased to appear on his own packaging.
By now they’ve replaced the delightful plain white cans with some less forgivably gaudy rubbish (but at no point Lipton himself, mercifully), and I can’t find it in cans anymore anyhow, so I can never return to it and express my true feelings. Tragic.
And I distinctly recall some advertisement about the late 1980s in which a chorus gleefully sang the word “decaffienated!” while a camera momentarily fixated on a closeup of the troublesome box. I didn’t know what decaffeinated meant but I assumed it had something to do with my downfall. Thankfully “The Lipton Tea Man,” as one website I could find evidence of this labeling on refers to him (for he is fond of drinking the lipton tea tea), is based on a real person, of whom other photographs can be found which render him less inflexible, 2-dimensional and inhuman, and thus the one scary version of less permanent and menacing.
He is no less dangerous, but now lacks the psychological advantage.
We know he is the fellow on the left container, there identified as The Taster, (Nestle’s counter-argument claimed that he chose to not be paid) which shows a full head. However, the photographs were taken in 1986; the partial head was in use before then! I expect Nestle used this new guy because it was no longer on speaking terms with the fragment, which was upset more than likely over breach of anatomical context. Worse, behind the packages on the left we have introduced a NEW head fragment; attorney Eric Stokel doesn’t even have a mouth. Might I ever find peace through full accumulation of pieces?
But anway, back to my point: looking like Lipton is bad news.
I don’t even remember what this guy did (though Wikipedia informs me he used state helicopters to get to church) but he really doesn’t have to do anything.
The virility of this family is worrisome. Rather an elaborate scheme to keep us from realizing that they lost the secret ancestral recipe for spelling wharf properly.
It is far more than a mere arbitrary childhud fixation of mine. Somebody meant for me to be afraid…
And so it is portentous that they have teamed on this occasion. But what’s so scary about this skeleton? Nothing, really; this one has been injured and its Lipton cloaking drive damaged.
But when first it met Kuros, folklore’s bravest destitute vagrant, the skeleton was very tiny indeed. The smallest form is most alarming, because it looks like it is wearing a Lipton hat. Luckily pausing covers up the sprites so I never, as a child, until now noticed that the bones which are being thrown (naturally) resemble elongated backward ‘S’es. I wouldn’t have gone into stores at all if I knew there were little Liptons hopping all over the place tossing pieces of the alphabet at their detractors.
As the skeleton eats more of Kuros’ magical meatballs, the valuable protein causes it to grow and be less frightening. For with maturity (observe that the skeleton has acquired the wisdom to use an axe to cut the meatballs into reasonable bite-sized portions), the skeleton realizes it doesn’t have to look like Sir Thomas Lipton and scare people to get attention, but like most profound revelations it came too late and Kuros murdered the poor undead mariner anyway so that he could
steal the treasure and finally reassemble the fearsome Energy Zone robot,
who promptly resumed terrorizing the good shirtless citizens with its insistence on jumping for no reason. I told you Kuros was a bum.
Back in the lusty month of May, I received a most curious bit of information following a routine update on the state of the jelly bean crop following its widespread ravagement by gummy worms from my field operative, code name Scarlet Fever Rodriguez And Other Stories. That is a facebook profile, but I believe the news about booby-trapped ovens and sneezes as jet propulsion are matters that the public would be well served to have greater awareness of. However!:
as well as to gain popular support by declaring themselves as a force for fiscal responsibility in this era of high national debt and uncertain finances. This is a distressing development indeed.
I quickly requested permission to retransmit the information…
But I was weak. A coward. I feared the skeletons and allowed myself to be silent for too long. Now I realize I must speak out, before more damage is done. The first skeleton, first of all, is way too proud of itself for being first. I know everybody on slashdot admires and congratulates you for it but your spooky pioneership only serves to incriminate you elsewhere, monstrous marrowfiend! You are no longer my first skeleton. As of today, I have no first skeleton. And I suppose that second skeleton thinks I should be impressed that it hired the smallest and cheapest skeletons for its opposition force. While I do fear the mischief tiny skeletons can bring forth (such as, for example, hindering our tiny Belmonts), a greater fear has taken me, and it has today driven me to action. A thing I cannot keep hidden:
DUCKS EVOLVED FROM SKELETONS
I remember seeing this and thinking that the display needed more skeletons. I am appalled at how foolish and naive I was. Skeletons are a thing we most certainly need less of! I mocked the thrifty skeleton for hiring such cheap tiny skeletons but now their purpose is only all too clear! It’s so sad to see a proud and noble race like pirates have their powers corrupted for nefarious purposes.
So pure and tragic is their corruption that they have even seen fit to ally themselves with ducks. We sent forth a champion to steal their treasure, but not in time to halt development on their secret weapon:
SKELETON PIRATE DUCKS.
Alright, this is too stupid to finish. For one thing, everybody knows real pirates keep macaws, not cockatiels. That’s just ignorant.
I referred to this but forget to place a link. I’m sure you will find this invaluable.
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I’m behind on my comic strip, anything written for this website, my college class schedule is ridiculous because I made it with the intent that I would live nearby, which I have failed to achieve, my chosen major is not anything with practical applications, yet I struggle with it, and I still can’t legally drive a car. HOWEVER…
True success! I have now truly mastered the Dungeons of the Unforgiven! But didn’t I do that a few years ago? No, I had merely completed the game under actual adequate conditions. I decided getting through a game with draconian level up policies and roving gangs of hostile, invincible rubbish bins that deletes your save file if your character dies wasn’t difficult enough, so I generated a player character that was utterly insufficient for the mere task of surviving; using the “monk” character class. Monks are the absolute worst class (yes, even worse than amphibia).
While monks are popularly known for their ability to perform astounding feats of acrobatics and concentration and match traditional orange robes with brand name sneakers, Moraff monks proceed cautiously and are afraid of things that most players don’t even notice, leading me to suspect that Moraff based his version on the Tony Shaloub character.
In addition to not backup up my character data, I refrained from making use of the inter-module escape tunnels, and the
magical respawning level 0 garbage can which drops dead instantly when approached but often leaves helpful trinkets behind. As helpful as you’d expect from a sentient waste receptacle, anyhow. It returns to the exact spot of its vapourization moments later and can be murdered and plundered over and over again. Yes, so, I denied myself even this glorious privilege.
Monks get the least hit and spell points and will not carry rings of regeneration, essential survival items, for spiritual reasons.
Fortunately they have no such reservations about hauling huge heaps of Worthless Greater American Dollars around. They are the Yang Song of the dungeon, and designed to die.
Do you know how hard it is to have a leadership of 1? You get 5 just for successfully ordering french fries at… eh… say, where should I get my french fries?
I have taken Moraff’s toughest challenge and been victorious. But in a sense, it is also his greatest curse; in the past such a character would be killed quickly and I could go and do something else. In fact, it DID die, once, but so quickly that I thought a retry was in order.
This is another view of the Demon Queen as seen by a taller person. I like it because it looks like a really bad postcard.
Getting through all this took me about a day’s worth of hours across half a week, but what would I have done instead? Read the Southern Connecticut State University course catalog? Registered for classes pertinent to my interests? Actually prepared for them? Clearly there were more pressing and educational matters to tend at (Such as framing my Morvard rejection letter). I am a pioneer in making bad games less interesting and more tedious than ever. My place in history is secured. I may do well to drop the classes I did sign up for and write a book about this experience.
The Moraff scholars among you might have noticed that I have only played to the end of the first dungeon in the game, and have not yet entered the subsequent easier identical modules. Well we all need something to look forward to in life!
Aw bees, I wish I’d thought of that!
One thing that I think is neat about last.fm, the website which was the topic of this post before it got too long and stupid and I had to remove the actual informative information from it to keep the length reasonable, are these little biographies that show up when I listen to music that I’ve liked for years but never gave much thought to the creators of.
I learned, for example, that before he become a game music composer, back in his younger days as a consulting detective, Koichi Sugiyama developed some solid theories linking video to the death of the radio star.
Later in life he of course went on to be Barack Obama.
Aw ban, that guy has so many albums of the same corny Dragon Warrior tunes, because people buy them. He must be rolling in dough. I, meanwhile, often find myself rolling in dopes. Yes that’s the only reason I mentioned it.
Although now I have decided that also I object to dumb Healie playing drums. Healie is like a floating dope with no torso or nose. Dopes often forget to have arms, so this seems like the next [totally il]logical step.
This puts me in a tough position because healers also remind me of c3po, who is my personal hero in life despite being a robot and not actually alive and not actually existent, but I stand by my principles. Healie cannot stand by its own principles because it has neither principles nor legs to actually stand with.
I’m not here to do things Healie would like! My parties are swingin’ occasions and healie isn’t welcome at them.
(who himself overcame the adversity of not having a face), and daring to go on quests wearing bright pink armor and refusing to shave his purple mustache, but Healie tries too hard to gain favor, and quite pinkly I find it sickening.
Excuse me, Ragnar’s party obtained the gold? As I see it, there’ll be no divvying of this plunder at journey’s end motel*.
Well now you’ve done it: you’ve emboldened Healie to commit the ultimate treachery: transforming into a skeleton. A jogging skeleton. You know you’re an inefficient being when becoming a skeleton enhances your skills. That is, if you are competent enough to know things.
we needn’t encourage this sort of behavior!
Now I just feel inadequate. I am blue with envy. I would be green but thankfully I’m not yella.
Although for some people being yella is the least of their problems.
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Sunday, the twenty-ninth: It is against my personal principles, but I am going to try and do something productive tomorrow.
A few months ago, I started using a wallet. Also few months ago, but not as many as I was just talking about, I lost my wallet.
For those of you not in the nose, a wallet is a tiny little pouch that you put all your money and important articles into. It has to be very small and easy to not realize you don’t have. If you lose track of it, you might as well go to jail because you can’t do a flipping thing without it.
Tralala, lala, you can’t go anywhere or do anything because you dropped the brown square!
Why can’t I just go to any place and have people believe that I am who I say I am? Because people, in general, are moralless scumbuses who resent the species they were born into and will hesitate, because hesitation is only temporary, to dispatch ruin upon the existence of any other person. And that’s why I have cards that prove that only I’m me, unless somebody else gets the cards. So what happens if I drop them? Why would somebody who is essentially my neighbor, my co-resident of this town, possibly this block of houses, not return to me a thing which has my own address that is obviously close by? Near enough to walk to? For I walked to wherever I was when I lost the thing? Because people are unscrupulous fiends who wish death or worse on everyone who is not them. They surround themselves with fences and noisy machinery and awful lights all night to do everything possible to disrupt any serenity in their own in their section of the universe.
It made me mad, when I first reported the loss, and I would be asked “did you check your back pockets?” No, because I wouldn’t have to, because I couldn’t not feel anything I put into one at all times. In fact, I never use my back pockets. If I did, that would be a great place to have something nabbed from without me seeing, wouldn’t it! The sudden rush of relative comfort from no longer having a thing crammed back there might also temporarily disorient me to the extent that I failed to realize an important had just been nabbed from me for however long is necessary to allow the thief to get away and so justify my never using such uncomfortable-yet alert pockets.
There are plenty of alternative pocket security measures I have yet to investigate.
But all this assumes another person took my wallet. More likely it simply fell out of wherever it was and landed in a dark, forgotten trench or crevice of the earth, where no mortal humanoid would be likely to venture into, much less search through in search of something. This possibly occurred in my own house. Really, there is no end of places it could have gone.
This is the wallet I have now. I purchased it because I like the design and it is hard to drop something that has a chain without noticing. However, feel free to think this just means I’m in some sort of nerd gang. I’m determined to not be accepted by any social group.
The only place I could find with chain wallets on the day I bought this was a Spencer store, and this was the only wallet with a chain there that didn’t have a picture of a skull or skulls on it. I don’t like skulls. I like actual skulls, just lingering around, cackling at people, picking fights. I wouldn’t put up with that normally, but skulls don’t realize how pathetic they are and I find them more endearingly pitiful than irritatingly delusional. I can handle illustrated skulls in the context of full skeletons, when I want to see skeletons. I don’t want to be seeing skulls without skeletons every time I buy twix. And yes, this even holds true if the skull is bright pink against a green background. What really bothers me is that most of them don’t even have jaws. They have upper teeth but no lower teeth. Why have teeth at all, then? How is the organless heap of bones going to chew the food it has no biological necessity to eat or ability to process?
Skeletons get no respect. They don’t deserve it, either, but in the absence of that, let them keep their jaws.
Police find skeleton inn. You know skeletons are bad if it’s illegal just for them to rent out beds. As I touched upon in the previous image, one gets ZERO REST when skeletons are around. It’s a total scam. There are things women love in bed, and none of them are skeletons. All those skeletons are going to JAIL. You could make the argument that these are honest, law-abiding skeletons trying to run a business. I welcome you to make that argument and OUT yourself as a skeleton, so that I can call the police again and report skeletons on the internet. I can tell you my plan because skeletons are dumb like that.
When I purchased it, the wallet, the cashier asked me if I would like to give the store an email. I said I’d have to think about it, because I wasn’t really sure what I’d say beyond that I liked some of the wallets they had for sale that didn’t have “cute” skulls on them, and I thought this was adequately communicated by me purchasing one. And then the woman clarified that she meant I should give them my email address. Oh, all right. Two mere syllables could have saved us so much trouble. I would give up my mail code so I could be informed about upcoming sales and promotions. At Spencer Gifts. I considered this, and in so considering I assessed that in my life I have made a purchase at a Spencer store approximately once every twenty-six years of my life, and I currently own all the novelty items featuring nude senior citizens with intestinal disorders I expect to need for the foreseeable future, and so I gave them your e-mail address instead. Take that, skeleton.
When my brother Idaho lost one of his many lost wallets some years ago, he eventually received an assortment of oafy knick-knacks in the mail accompanied by this note.
My wallet had 300 dollars in it. I’m worried I’m going to get a cake with a stripper inside. Because I don’t like naked people in my food, and if it’s my money I’d rather have a big scone instead.
Truthfully, I like pies best, but when I considered making a picture of a giant pie several people assured me those were “unoriginal,” and the last thing I want is to eat like a hack.
I like these wallets. They remind me of dilapidated housing. It’s like carrying a shantytown in your pocket. Who’d want to get at any money or personal items that are kept inside something like this?
I knew it. They’re hoarding illegal library cards. Fookin’ prawns.
Am I better off with total whitening or total advanced whitening? How is it possible to advance beyond total? Does the advanced one make teeth translucent? Is it just more challenging? How can this goop hope to accomplish any whitening at all without
whitening oxygen bubbles? Clearly, they are essential. Ha ha, I pity any poor fool who bought normal advanced whitening without knowing oxygen bubbles had been invented. That person is doomed to a life of sub-caucasian bite bricks.
I actually tried this eventually, and you’ll be surprised to know that in actual usage it’s exactly the same as every other toothpaste I’ve ever used.
I might go so far as to declare that the finest regular I’ve ever tasted.
How are there so many different types of toothpaste, with so little information provided to help a person choose? Is it important which one I use? I did not think it was like with soda or salsa or saltlakrids, where it’s a trivial thing I don’t need, am actually better off without, and should choose entirely upon the whim of a moment. This is supposed to be a tool for cleaning a sensitive, integral series of body components. It’s a health issue, not a fashion conundrum. Yes, there are heaps of soaps, too, but they are competing soap brands offering similar products. This is one brand offering similar products. When you do see multitudes of soap under one label it tends to be about the various smells they give off. I try to avoid smelling people’s teeth.
This article’s author has encountered far more colgates than I, but doesn’t answer, nor ask the question of what’s actually in the interests of teeth themselves (it does, however, include a picture which clicking upon causes to appear a javascript window with a smaller version of the picture inside it). Do I want to prevent cavities or fight plaque? Why do we lack the technology to do both? Long ago it was my understanding that all toothpastes did all these things. Now, though, they’ve gone soft. Toothpaste? More like toothglue! Eh eh eh.
Which of these is actually the most beneficial is impossible to discern. Not just because your deteriorating vision has rendered the print a blurry, unintelligible mess, but because each paste type only includes the check boxes which would be checked. They are, in effect, mere bullet points, but this makes them seem like bonus features. Which reminds me…
With Webster Premier Banking you get 5000 bonus points. Do you have any idea what that means? That means you’ll be one fourth of the way toward getting your first extra life. What other bank can promise you something so matenopoulos?
See! Only Wachovia gives you a Way to Save. You don’t even need extra lives when your bank has exclusive access to the Imperial Scrolls of Honor. Truly a glamorous bonus.
No, Baramos Bomus! Nobody ever calls you! Get out of here! You are not needed at this time! Go away before your friends show up…
Wonderful. Now there’s some idiot purple monster skeleton here. Surely you can admit that’s kind of stupid.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN “KIND OF” STUPID?
Aren’t you glad I don’t update this site every two days anymore?
This is the saddest day of my life.
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I have been busy, lately. The internet has been regularly dysfunctional. These are not good circumstances for keeping websites. Only a fool would continue to do so!
It looks like my meeplesworth needs will be satisfied at last. Nevermind that the actual site I was searching at found nothing; all other sites on the internet have more meeplesworth than they can handle.
I do NOT want xxx adult meeplesworth!
Ah! Life, is, gooood.
Now we are really talking the business. I trust the mark of the Two Horny Grannies. They know their meeplesworth.
The meeplesworth saga is a strange one indeed.
What happened is that I once typed “meeplesworth” into a less than reputable search engine because I suspected it was lying when it told me other sites had magnificent, fast, randomly sized downloads of things I never seemed to be able to actually get anywhere despite how incredibly popular they were reported to be. Rather than admit it had nothing, it made up random nonsense, it lied, in an attempt to get me to visit its obviously affiliated useless clone sites where I would never find what I wanted but it could load its own ads forever. That’s what real e-commerce is all about! Tricking people, giving them nothing, and demanding money from them. And now that the central computer thinks people are searching for “meeplesworth,” links to the list of worthless links it made when I typed meeplesworth will also show up forever anytime someone tries to find real meeplesworth. The only things better, after al, than nothing are search results for nothing. Surprise! Your search didn’t actually find what you wanted, just another list of useless search results! And now: ADS.
Do not dismiss this as me whining that I can’t get things for free, and so I deserve whatever pitiful fate may come of that; I have plenty of meeplesworth. I may not get my money’s worth, but I always get my meeplesworth. This is me whining that there are people who get paid to design computers that lie. There are people who get paid to raise expectations which they know can never be met. There are people who get paid to design products that don’t work. They get paid to design ads for products that don’t work. They get paid to run ads for products which don’t work. They get paid to run ads for services which do not exist. They get paid to appear in and tell people to see hundred-million-dollar films they know are horrible, and knew would be horrible. They get paid to lie about stupid microwave popcorn chemicals harrassing people’s lungs. They get paid to fabricate nonsense scientific data justifying ludicrously high energy prices despite a consistent rise in profits. They get paid to say a war which kills thousands and thousands of people and that never ends really isn’t that bad and so might as well not end oh excuse me that’s the democrat presidential race. And who’s paying them? We are paying them! We are paying them to rip us off! We are paying them for the right to pay more! EVERYTHING IS LIES AND MONEY GOING TO PEOPLE WHO LIE! BUSINESSES CAN ONLY STAY IN BUSINESS BY DOING BAD BUSINESS AND THEY GLADLY DO SO! DON’T YOU SEE?! IT’S A CONSPIRACY! THEY’RE OUT TO GET US! READ THE MANIFESTO, MAN! TALK TO CHUCK! COMMENT MY PICS! WATCH MY FEET! CHANGE MY DIAPER! TAKE WHAT YOU WILL BUT DON’T RATTLE ME BONES!
Yes, that is what I was getting at.
Some guy called Saint Zartan showed me a link to these things back in October, some company called “choice shirts” selling various objects of personal adornment I myself would never choose. What follows is much of the message I sent in return, plus some other junk I was hoping to not to find when I went to verify that the link still worked. You know I’m desperate when I’m digging up my old email. I hate dirt.
I also hate the readily available font options in wordpress. I’m pretty sure I have to define everything in styles.css in advance and then I need to upload that and oh the pain. But ehhh,
Not only could I not cash the check, I couldn’t even save the tiny sample picture without dredging through my browser cache. They have the imdib amazon.corn technology which as anyone can see has stopped me from stealing pictures on many occasions. It’s an understandable precaution by the choiceshirts people, however: a real rebel wouldn’t pay for clothing from a website. He’d load up Apple Safari, download a picture, print it out, knit his own shirt and iron-on the design himself. All his friends will be impressed, not just with his home economics skills, but also when they see his pixelated, jaypeg artifact ghost pit-bull behind unreadable words reminiscent of what you see on that thar fancy bank paper.
What does this mean? Bimshwel scientists have deduced that the saloon/circus font on the big yellow ball reads “REBEL FASTPITCH SINCE 1861” but that doesn’t explain a whole lot, nor can I even figure out how the speed at which a low weight round object is propelled through the air may be inherently rebellious. I assume, and that’s all I can do, that the big woids mean any woman who attempts to toss a spheroid in a different fashion, id ehhhst, like a man, is stepping outside her place and by disrespecting men she therefore disrespects Jesus and is probably a lesbian too and Jesus doesn’t like that either. I’m just assuming. You know what Jesus loves, though: slaves country music.
That’s an order. You must love that country music. While I admit I’m personally curious as to what the hat and boots sound like, I’m comforted to know that whatever it is I must love it. Just like Evita. Those are some good songs, yo. Andrew Lloyd Webber, what a master. The kind without slaves, I mean. This is about heritage.
See, what’d I tell you.
Heritage, not hate. Being an ornery aynod whose clothing challenges other people to fights isn’t hate. It’s manning up. I think I just wrote a new shirt.
And then, of course, you follow it up with this. Doot, your heritage is hate. Even if you convince me it wasn’t, it is by now. Uck, at least those evil smirks in Detroit admit what they’re on about and pretend to have evidence which justifies them.
No no no, ignorant fop, you misunderstand completely. Their noble plantating ancestors loved their rightless servants. Trust me, they were very grateful for the luxurious master manors they were able to buy from the hard work they weren’t doing. They only took up the whip because they had to. Now then, would you like to join my cult?
Marco is right. The slave owners were so deluded they thought they were protecting their slaves. They weren’t smart enough to hate their slaves. Their descendents, to their credit, have learned to hate.
You’re saying I should be more offended?
I don’t know who’s a rebel these days, but if there’s a huge company printing asinine slogans and empty threats on clothing and making a disgusting profit selling it to anyone with their own credit card or someone else’s over the internet, and you gladly participate, it isn’t you.
What does this angry texas Skeleton pointing at my left shoulder have to do with God gracing anything? I thought there was nothing less godly than the undead making war on the citizens of earth. If anything, we have been forsaken.
Whip skeletons, not slaves! There is no bigger threat to our glorious union than flying skeletons.
Just this once, I’ll allow you to dissect the irony yourself. And no, I don’t even mean people still upset at the failure of a one-hundred-forty year old movement of armed defiance they haven’t the slightest grasp of the meaning behind complaining about crybabies.
I’m not certain what this says –but don’t worry, I’m pretty sure it’s something to do with rationalizing committing adultery with a poorly drawn horse you put makeup on– I just think the amount of reading required exceeds the maximum amount that is considered rebellious.
All right, very right, men have asserted themselves. What do the ladies think? Hopefully they can stand up for their own rights, maybe add a touch of class to the proceedings and remind us all of the famous Southern Hospitality that
Uhhhhhhhhhhh…
hhhhhhhhhhhhhh……
I’m fascinated by the idea that Southern Mom and Southern Bitch receive the exact same treatment.
I’m hardly surprised, though. Here’s something really special:
If you mess with my wife
I can forgive you.
If you mess with my truck or dogs,
I’ll shoot you!
-COONHUNTER
Seckshual objectification and misogyny/willingness to be objectified and misogyny’ed, mortal violence as adjudicator of minorest grievances, pride in one’s own laziness outside that category, inexplicable love for the scariest dogs and scarierest recording artists…
I can’t help noticing that the least pleasant people, regardless of their race type, have very much in common. Why can’t they get along?