 |
ARRRRRRRRGH, MY BACK
It hurts
|
|
|  |
|
|
|
Do not mind me, I was just leaving.
Don't worry. We'll get him. Ya! Ha! Leave it to us!
No one wants to learn about where Alcedes came from. Alcedes came from the dump, and will be going back there soon. Alcedes is not a person. It has no home.
If only you realized your own impudence! If not for me, you'd have been forgotten altogether! And now you meet your doom!
ARRRRRRRRRRRRGH! TOO STUPID!
Today will be a day for rebuttals. Here comes another one.
Here's an idea, why don't you just say "I did it!," cat? Since you love so much taking credit for deeds you had not the slightest part in. Admit your true intentions, scoundrel! You're about as helpful in a fight as Alcedes. And stop calling me "Alex," cat.
Oh ho! My, how the tables have turned! The boot is on the other foot, my friend (even though you do not wear boots and are not my friend)! Well, if you're not a cat, what are you, then?
So you admit you have no idea! If you don't know what you are, how do you know it isn't cat, cat? And is it fair to demand people act based on information you will never give them, even if you had it, which you do not? Not in the least! Confess! Confess the failure of your thinking, knave! Did you know and forget?
I'll accept that. This time.
|
|
|
|
There's a promotion for Just For Mans for brand hair paint, in which the sole reason a man character is not invited by a women character to come and do sex is because man person has not used the hair paint. I guess there are pheromones in it or something.
Also present are two creepy onlookers holding prop microphones –for the other man not holding one was perfectly audible– giving an entirely unnecessary summary of the things I can see, as they are happening. I can understand the business company mindset: Instead of telling people about the paint they can put on their gray hair, why don't we hire professional fake news-mens to throw in inappropriate yet obvious sport analogies any worthless fantwit could come up with? I know these poyozos are professionals, and not actors pretending to be sport non-news-mens, because they're so talented. Wow, these guys really earn their living, wearing suit-like garments and both saying stuff at the same time. I know I couldn't do that job; I'm allergic to the fabric those things are made with. Even if I wasn't, only people who make hundreds-of-thousands of dollars per year prior to recommending it are worth taking the recommendation of hair paint from. I wonder why they only have brown paint, though. If I was to paint my hair, why would I make it a color that it once was or could have been if I weren't descended from filthy Irish?
Wow, in just five minutes, hair looks natural. So is the implication here that grey hair is some sort of alien phenomenon? It's a result of overexposure to gamma rays? Or are they afraid to suggest to potential customers that the gray hair makes them look old? Or more likely; the sport-announcing doofs whose smiling hair-painted heads appear on the boxes. And what's wrong with being old? Aw ban, I remember when I was three years old, I told everyone it was really four, and I'm still just as likely to buy this perfectly natural chemical abomination that no one on the consumer end knows causes cancer yet.
Yulks. I don't like the attitude, even if it's intended as a joke here, because there are plenty of man-oafs who possess it sincerely, the belief that having sexas on women is equivelant to scoring points in thportth games. Like it's only that trivial.
Making oneself like naked, another person like naked, and then violating each others' space has as much and the same sort (that of having creepy men watching who will applaud it) of emotional significance as a spheroid object passing across some arbitrarily defined boundary. Biologically, maybe it does, if you use the protecting, but mentally it shouldn't be as easy a decision as throwing a stupid ball. And what woman is so daft and simple that the difference between whether a man is worth exposing her most private aspects to or isn't is as basic as the man ducking behind a shed and rubbing brown slop on his head for five minutes? And this is a beard. I would think if one beard bothers you, it's because you hate beards, regardless of whether it more resembles a porcupine or a hedgehog, but I don't watch baseball, so what do I know? Literally, the man gets turned down, walks away, suddenly comes back with a different looking beard and all is forgiven or forgotten. Yes! Score! You got more points! Toss that broad in the pile, make a notch on your card, draw a fifth diagonal line over the four vertical lines. nnnGOAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHL! It's good that you are not the female, for then you'd be a dirty, dirty whore. WINNING THE GAME IS JUST FOR MEN!
Then there is the Just For Men victory anthem, the song you have to sing after winning. If the only thing you have ever desired in your life is to have brown hair, especially if you're someone, like the men in these advertisements, who barely have any hair, then you're just a boring and pathetic person. If you are convinced you have only one single problem in the entire world, that being your gray hair, because it keeps you from goaling on imaginary lobotomized beer commercial women... then obviously you haven't tried Axe Deodorant Body Spray.
Axe Deodorant Body Spray, makes dames dumb so you can do 'em 'n dump 'em.™
|
|
|
|
Our universities are already full of liberals. We don't need 'em full of bears.
Well well well, do I have a treat for you! (no.)
Do you really want to be eating beef that was hacked up by some psychotic, yellow-suspender-wearing lumberjack, with his woodcutting ax? Golly gee, I've never had mouth slivers and food poisoning before! I'm gonna get me some of that there Trail's Best Beef Jerky! Certainly, of all the beef jerkies you'll find lying around in the dirt covered with pine needles and bootprints, this may well be the best. What sort of cattle live in places with pine trees in the background, anyway? Not the sort commonly associated with "beef," anyhow. No, this is a whole new kind of beef. This employs untold originality in its creation and FDA approval forgery.
|
|
|
|
I think it may be about time I stopped living in the distant past and finally make the great jump to the less distant past. Yes, I plan to move all the way into the mid-nineteen-nineties. In what is not a contradiction of what I said a few months ago at all but you might think it is if you remembered reading it, there are a number of CD-driven games which I was never able to bring within my grasp during the time when they were for sale, und so I seek them now. Not actively; I still just pretty much stay here and type things, but certainly, if they are mentioned, sometimes I stop and think about them for a moment instead of scowling in disgust.
Recently, I acquired two, and will discuss them now, because otherwise I was going to post something about how I had nothing to post here.
I know there are a reasonable pile load of sprite-based number throwing games translated by Working Designs on the Sega Saturn, but I would not know even where to obtain one of those or any of those. This is a good start, though. You'll notice this is Silver Star Story Complete. Some devious Lunars will only give you half the Story, and I won't tolerate that.
The most obvious: the package is cheaper. The next most obvious: the game is much cheaper. In case you can't read that, and... no, neither can I, it says "$4.99," while the previous object is only $29.99. Either this is a great deal or this game is terrible. Or maybe those multi-compartmented boxes are really hard to make.
Neither item has an instruction manual. This could be a problem, because Capcom has a history of drastically altering and revolutionizing every aspect of its Megaman games between sequels. But for the title, an unthinking person might not even see the connection one finds following a deep and prolonged examination of the intricate plot elements, so unique and crucial to each installment.
I have long been aware of a slew of uncharted post-SNES Megamen for me to investigate the rumors of, and I choose to do so, even if the big cookie is absent or unobtainable. My main worry is that I hear that there are character voices ("hear" is used in the figurative sense that I read there were voices.), and those are typically bad news when applied to characters who used to not have voices.
Similarly, certain dealings of days past have made me wary of Lunar, for I fear that I may one day come to have a fuller understanding of this troubled individual.
Fortunately, you never need worry of me informing you, for I have just looked up the word "ineffable." I don't dare accuse Doubleyew Dee Enn of being ironic or hyperbolic, because I don't think he's looked up any of these words.
|
|
|
|
Do you have the endurance to lift a skateboard? If so, you may be a Subway Champion. Do not overstress yourself trying to lift a very large skateboard; this is not a competition. Anyone who can lift any skateboard may be one of the Subway Champions. I'm sure you're all very proud.
|
|
|
|
Yes, but is the library closed?
|
|
|
|
Most of my sound files are lame, I know (though if you think they aren't I'd be glad to hear from you regarding that topic as the preceding statement is entirely a product of my paranoia and insecurity), and I mainly will provide one in the absence of a much more easily overlooked-if-lame picture because I think it is strange or provides necessary justification for the text I follow or precede it with. This one, however, I think is simply amazing. Even with the 15 decibels of air noise my microphone has been picking up since I tapped it the wrong way half a month ago. It's just so terrible. I can tell that the advertisers took two separate lines and joined them together, in such a way that perhaps the filmmakers did not intend (because you know quality is job 1 for g-rated dog moviesmiths), but they still did that and thought "I like how this sounds now," so I can say whatever I want. Beyond the weirdness, it doesn't have a full stop in the middle and the grammar is inconsistent. The speaker was a dog, but he was only being human before that. It's not the way someone would phrase it when speaking naturally, if such words could be regarded as natural. It's like something a SNK fighting game character would say after beating an opponent, in the event one had turned into a dog but back into being human the night before doing so. I've surely listened to it about 80 times in the three days I've had it. Sometimes just the first half, like it was in the original ad I heard it in. "Last night I turned into a dog." End of explanation. And I guess nobody asks for one.
Hey Tim! Toolman! Where were you last night? We waited forever! What happened?
Last night I turned into a dog THEN I TURNED BACK INTO BEING HUMAN!
Oh, really? Well, try to let us know in advance next time so we don't wait.
Is the yellow area in that background still too bright? If I make it any darker the blue turns black. Bah. Nothing works properly around here. Who is responsible for this?
|
|
|
|
I didn't do the attacks. No evidence.
Another simple complaint became too long. And possibly too wrong.
|
|
|
|
Regarding, sort of, Jon Stewart, who is mentioned in the first sentence of that, during the Daily Show with Jon Stewart –the show Jon Stewart is on– I saw an advertisement for The Border Patrol. This time I did get a picture:
Because it was on the channel that is allowed to call itself Comedy Central, and also because it's completely ridiculous looking, I thought it was a new Reno 911 show. It is not. It sincerely thought showing that would make me want to join their gang. And... well, sure, I've thought about it, but haven't sent in my application yet. I'm waiting to see who remains after they meet up with
the other border patrol.
Great Photoshop head-job, guys. I can't even tell.
|
|
|
|
I wish the Fallout Boys would fallout of a hot air balloon. They don't have to die, just decide to quit their jobs or become forced to do so by injuries if they still disobey. Post hot air balloon injuries.
Speaking of music bands I hate or am indifferent towards, OK GO is probably the most popular group named after a Captain America catchphrase, though I always preferred I Can't Move, myself.
|
|
|
|
I've seen people complain about what an egotistical sensibility Jaime Foxx (AKA Not Damon Wayans or Jim Carrey from In Living Color) has developed in recent years. I never thought much about it until C-Central started airing promotions for Jaime Foxx's Laffapalooza hosted by Cedrick the Entertainer.
I tried to get a picture of the screen with those words on it, but the picture turned into whoever this is instead when I pressed the picture-taking button. I'd make some joke about how fat the woman is, but I suspect that's most of her routine, and I'd never knowingly commit theft of schtick.
The first part of the title was bad enough, because no one should have an anything palooza, because palooza means nothing and sounds stupid. It's one of those things that's been done so many times no one remembers that it means nothing or even what it's a reference to. How many "confessions of a teenage..." are there? A whole bunch! I don't even know what the original teenage was confessing to! I assume the willful watching of Booty Call, featuring academy award winner Jaime Foxx, but I cannot know for certain. But Jaime Foxx doesn't even handle his own palooza. He just calls up Cedrick "other people on TV swear I'm funny" The Entertainer and makes the deal. He puts his name on it but has no other apparent connection to it. Doesn't Mr. Foxx know only Kelsey Grammer is allowed to do that? He just says "hey, host my palooza, I'm busy recording another album of someone else's songs in that person's voice." It makes no sense for the movie Ray to have an official sound-track album, because the real Ray Charles also had albums. People just need things to be new, nevermind why. I recently heard a new recording of Korn's "Freak on a Leash," as performed by 2005 Korn trying to sound like 1998 Korn. Someone at the Broadcast Headquarters sez "we won't ever play your seven year old song again unless you record a new version that is trying to sound the same but ends up being less good because it is trying to be a copy." I should try to retype my Air Fortress page from memory and call it the special "live" version. People will love me then.
|
|
|
|
I watched Nightline again. Why did I do that? Cynthia McFadden was just wrapping up a story on Colombian guerillas and their thousands of hostages (and you thought Colombians were just dirty cocaine/coffee traffickers), and then without so much as a camera angle change she transfered hosting duties over to Terry Moran, who was covering Mardis Gra. Did he win some kind of "Nick takes over your correspondent duties" contest?
I had a sound file before I came down here, but now I don't (and now I do again), and it has Moran saying something like "you can't stop Merde Gras. Back to Cynthia with Nascar, Romance, and a sign of the times." I tell you that because somehow the entire next passage is based on that. I do not know what "Lundi Gras" is.
Ehhh, it seems that there is a series of Nascar romance novels planned. "Series," as in more than one. I hope Nascar paid the book company, and not the other way around (if it must be one), because that will have meant there was someone in the book business who thought "we need more Nascar themed books. A bunch more." Also, more importantly, it's a pretty small jump to just call the deal "Bascar" and save yourself however million dollars in licensing fees. It's not like television or a movie where there are authentic visual elements that would take people out of the moment if they looked wrong. What's that? Oh, right, they're just cars. And not even the stylish triangle cars. Big boxy rectangle cars with stickers on them. You could probably fake that. Is this making sense? Alas, if only I had paid Nascar for the rights to accurately worded descriptions! Of a thing that's boring enough to see.
I don't even know how stock car racing can be anything more than a minor, inconsequential, almost madlibbian background element if the foreground element is romance. It's not like they can do sex to each other in the vehicle during the race. Although knowing the artificial manufactured dramatical nature of these things, I can see something like that becoming a central conflict. "Why do you have to race now? It's only your sole skill and the one thing you get paid money to do!"
I'd like to see YOU play this without cheating. No I wouldn't.
I don't think the popularity of this sort of thing is anything new, but much like the Colombian hostage takings, which have been happening for decades, it's only in recent years that the American medias started getting a taste for disaster and tragedy of a not immediately apparent nature.
|
|
|
|
Advertise with us! Call 1888-888-888-888-888-888-888ARRRGH I'VE BEEN SHOT!
(and my back, also)
|
|
Carbuncle sez:
| Ahhhhrg! I've been shot! Just kidding. But seriously, this giant red thing jammed in my forehead gives me a wicked headache, could someone maybe try to get it out? I no longer worry if it will kill me; it will be the end of my suffering one way or the other. Alright, maybe it's not that bad, but it's still pretty bad. Everytime you people call me down here, I keep thinking it's because one of you is going to help me deal with my problem. But no, it's always "cast 'reflect' on us using your mystical jewel, Carbie!" Look, you can have the "mystical jewel" if you succeed in dislodging it from my frontal lobe. It's been such a burden that the mere sight of it sickens me. Not that I can see it, mind you, due to its proximity to the things I see with, so the alleged sparkling beauty of it is lost on me. Aren't I even owed that much? What thanks do I ever get for living this life? 45 magic points? I'm a mogspanked Eidolon / Esper / magic flying rat / whatever! I've got 37 billion magic points! They mean nothing to me! And stop calling me Carbie! You know I hate that! That's not even a stupid version of my proper name! "Carbuncle" is what the rock jammed between my eyes is called! The only reason I tend not to correct you is because I forgot my real name years ago on account of the shiny shrapnel scarring my cerebellum! "Curaga?!" Sucks to your curaga! Give me some aspirin or beat me with a crowbar until I pass out and then use it to pry this thing out if you want to make yourself useful. It hurts, it hurts so very badly! MURRRRGH, my rage intensifies the pain! I will just be sad, then.
|
|
|
|
|
|
| 
Murienlul "Carbuncle" Swigglith II
|
|
Verboten: the above message does not necessarily reflect the agony-aggravating thoughts or words of Carbuncle. Ha ha, "reflect," get it?
|
