Pirate Radar posted:

How is that pronounced in Australia?

8th-snype posted:

Growing up in central New York (Rome/Utica) prepared me greatly for living in Seattle. None of the weird names here are any harder to pronounce than the Mohawk names I grew up with.

8th-snype posted:

Growing up in central New York (Rome/Utica) prepared me greatly for living in Seattle. None of the weird names here are any harder to pronounce than the Mohawk names I grew up with.

Bogan Krkic posted:

It's pronounced 'sword'

PHIZ KALIFA posted:

Immortan Garfield cracked his whip, ordering his legion of dog-slaves to turn the dread wheels which powered his cruel empire.
On cue, torrents of hot sauce gushed forth from the massive spigots jutting from his fort’s stony spire, carved in his likeness.
“Be careful you do not grow addicted to lasagna!” He cackled as the starving hordes below tore themselves apart in the fray. “It will take hold of you, and you will grow to resent its absence.” He chuckled softly to himself as his eyes scanned the desolation stretching till it fell away.
None knew how deep the pasta reserves ran, or how long until they ran dry, but none dared question the Immortan’s tight-fisted miserliness, even as he himself would bathe in lasagna until his fur was matted and sticky with cheese.
“Shall I draw you a bath, my king tom-lion?” Meweled the bejeweled Nermal, Lust-Queen of the Buttered Fuckpits. “Or purrhaps your napliness would care to recline upon his golden throne?” Her regent was silent for a long moment, eyes locked on eternity. Reflexively, she flopped upon her back and rolled her belly enticingly, even as her paws bared gold-plated claws.
“Neither.” He spoke abruptly, still caring not to gaze upon her. “Inform the legions that they are to rest this day. The palace staff are to be given their pay early. Have the chefs feed the hungry, and the doctors bring rest to the ill. I shall take to the Memory Caverns today, and need no tending.”
“M-my lord!” Nermal’s tail bushed out in response. “Has some dark omen taken root in your soul? What troubles plague you, that could not be cured by the fruits of my six perky bosoms?” Immortan Garfield, Servitor of the Sauce, the People’s Pastamaniac, Lordsagna, The Striped Judge, gazed upon her, and she felt her soul crucified to the ground by the lance of his eyes.
“Know you not the time? This is the Seventh Year of Resurrection. It is the Seventh Day After the Fall. This is the day I hate most of all.” He stormed from the room, cape swishing dramatically. “When the world was whole, we used to call it. . . Monday.”

The Memory Caverns ran deep below the butte, some leading to vast pools of molten lasagna, other twisting paths corkscrewed into clouds of poison, searing vents of deadly gas capable of scalding the hair off a dead boar in under a minute. Garfield stepped carefully around the traps he designed, the fuilsade of poison darts which needed to be re-poisoned every three months, the massive scythes which rusted in the humidity, and the clay pots full of angry snakes had the nasty habit of quickly becoming a clay pot full of dead snakes, which is still horrifying but in a less direct, more philosophically cerebral kind of way, like we’re the snakes and society is the clay pot, and the patriarchy is the extremely bitten-by-snakes dogslave cramming us all into the jar in the first place.
That is just one of the many thousands of thoughts which swirled in Immortan Garfield’s head, as he wandered through the unlit passages of his own subconscious.
Lyman joined him, silently slipping his phosphorescent fingers into his murderer’s rough paw.
“It’s good to see you, Lyman.” Garfield said, his voice heavy.
“You’re the only one who can.” Lyman whispered.
“I hope you know I meant nothing personal.” Garfield said. “We both knew only one of us could be Jon’s true friend. If I hadn’t struck you with a ballpeen hammer, thrown you down the stairs, and buried you in the root cellar, you’d have done the same to me.”
Lyman shook his head slowly. “I was poisoning your food for three months before you did me in. You digested so much arsenic your litter pan died. The ground water of the whole city reeked of almonds. At the end I was just curious how far you’d go. You remember the time I offered you a milkshake, and it was really just a bottle of nail polish remover?” Garfield nodded. “You looked me in the eye and said, ‘wow, this smells like nail polish remover,’ and then you drank the entire bottle. You licked the cap when you were done and proclaimed it the greatest milkshake you’d ever had.”
Garfield chuckled a little. “Ah, what would I give to walk in the world of milkshakes once more! How I took it all for granted!”
Lyman ignored this. “That is when I knew I could not beat you. I sold my honor to kill a housecat, and failed. I was shattered, and all I could feel as I was lying there, my life draining into the pit you dug me, was surprise at how long it took you to act.”
Garfield smiled. “It amused me, for a time, to watch you struggle in vain. I’d bide my time imagining the subtle thrill of nailing you to the floor, shaving your ridiculous mustache off with a box cutter, and mailing it to Abu Dhabi. In the early days it wasn’t about murdering you, Lyman, so much as replacing you. I would have been content demoting you to a supporting character, incidental to Jon and I, but you seemed determined not to stay in your place. I cannot abide that kind of instability, Lyman, I need to know the ground beneath me is stable.” Garfield kicked at the walls of the tunnel, which were carved with three-panel pictograms.
“And nothing is more stable than dead ground.” Lyman called, his voice a torrent of wind rolling over salty dunes.
“I didn’t kill this place!” Garfield shouted, running now. “I just did what I had to! I just responded to the threats as they arose!”
Lyman flew behind him, his voice mocking and shrill. “They only arose to stop the campaign you started.”
Garfield started panting, ducking blindly through tunnels, running on instinct, seeing time pass before his eyes as the pictograms grew cruder and cruder, many now defaced with scribbled hitler mustaches and eye-patches.
“Blame Dilbert! When he became Libertarian Superpresident he deregulated the nuke plants and they all went supercritical at the same time!”
“In response, you waged war on the last remaining outposts of humanity and conscripted them into your pasta-based hierarchy of labor and suffering!”
Garfield spun on his heels and came face to face with his spectral pursuer. “Do you not remember? It was chaos before me!” He shouted, the veins in his neck throbbing. “Beetle Bailey was out there, falling asleep on watch six days a week, just begging the enemy to invade! Dagwood was making sandwiches taller than the frame while Blondie cucked his boss into the got dang sunset! There wasn’t hell worth poo poo in comics before I showed up, I went huge, and everyone got rich on my coattails!” He scratched furiously at the walls. “I should have neutered Marmaduke with my bare hands when he moved to have me impeached, but I didn’t! I was a kind and just ruler, and even despite all that, the world has gone to hell.”
“A sick world, fit for a sick king!” Lyman spat. “Odie was too good for you, despite all your abuses. Jon is an idiot but no Arbuckle has ever sinned so heinously as to deserve a plague as Biblical as you.”
“Silence!” Garfield roared, tearing free a chunk of wall and hurling it through the ghost. “SILENCE!”
“You should be tried for war crimes after what you did to the US Acres.” Lyman hissed, his ghostly mustache leaving ectoplasm on Immortan Garfield’s whiskers.
“Who would convict me?” Garfield gestured to the empty wall. “What authority remains untoppled, strong enough to bind my hands?”
“Jon lives.” Lyman smiled. “Jon of the Arbuckles discovered the Stargate, and is dancing through the cosmos, raising an intergalactic army against you. Already thirteen planets in seven different systems have pledged arms and soldiers, ships and weapons.”
“Let them come.” Garfield scoffed. “They can choke on my kingdom of dust! Let them take this broken world from me, for all the good it’ll do them! For all the good it never did me!”
“Two ships hang behind our fractured moon, waiting for the go-ahead to start arming the rebels they’ve seeded into your palace ranks. Have you heard legend of The Outlaw Star? Have you not seen The Firefly?” Lyman smirked. “I have some DVDs, you can borrow.”
“I don’t have anything that can play ghost DVDs.” Garfield shrugged. “And what of Jon’s girlfriend? What fate befell Liz?”
“She journeys with him, as equal partners in love and adventure.” Lyman gazed upwards. “Though, she prefers to go by ‘The Doctor’ these days.”

DogonCrook posted:

What hes asking on appeal isnt something the judge would be required to even consider in the us. Ask a judge to invalidate a juries finding of fact you can take a hike lol. In this case another judges finding a fact. If they even consider it they unravel tje entire legal system. Thats so foundational im not even sure what would underpin your legal system if men cannot judge what is and what is not fact and be done with it. At that point technically anything is true from the governments perspective and i dont understand how that could function. Thats not a little technical detail lol. But.. moon people... so hell i dont know.

ulmont posted:

Your odds are incredibly bad, but US appellate courts occasionally overturn trial court's findings of fact. It's usually under a "plain error" or a "clearly erroneous" test.

DogonCrook posted:

Yeah im just saying doing it while aknowledging the guilty verdict and not contesting the finding of fact, is questioning the validity of a guilty verdict generally, not his specifically. Hes claiming beside guilt there is some other abstract bar you have to clear to enact a sentence on that verdict. As if there were shades of fact some being more valid than others. Thats plainly retarded imo. Thats a completely arbitrary system if so, its not justice.

DogonCrook posted:

I mean if you can point to where im wrong im all ears.

steinrokkan posted:

as soon as you make a cogent argument other than "this is some wild stuff"

DogonCrook posted:

Yeah fair enough

Communist Q posted:

A friend of mine, who's a musician, recently told me about how he made one of his weirder albums. Apparently he took a fist full of ambien and proceeded to blackout for a few days. A couple of days later he receives an envelope in the mail he sent to himself while blacked out. Inside was a letter that was indecipherable and a thumb drive containing some music. While most of the album isn't worth listening to, this song is.

stone cold posted:

ChickenOfTomorrow posted:

burial posted:

Oh my god. This is loving magical and I am going to spread it around as far and as fast as I can.

Facebook Aunt posted:

I think there are companys that helps old white ladies compile recipes as a fund raiser thing. My grandma's church made a cookbook that looked just like that 30 years ago. The lady in charge has to sell a certain amount of advertising space in the book (mostly by guilting business owners connected to the church) and then the book company prints their book for 'free'. They get their 200 copies of the book and sell them (mostly to the very ladies that contributed the recipes). So then all the ladies get to see their names in print and the church walks away with a few thousand dollars.

No new money really comes in from outside though, so it seems less like fund raising an more like a lot of busywork culminating with everyone involved donating ten bucks.

Grognan posted:

quote:

No new money really comes in from outside though, so it seems less like fund raising an more like a lot of busywork culminating with everyone involved donating ten bucks.

enough about something awful though

Zamboni_Rodeo posted:

This will be stuck in my head for days and I'm perfectly okay with that.

Facebook Aunt posted:

By place does it need to be a currently inhabited town, or just a place? Canada has Head-Smashed-In Buffalo Jump, it's not inhabited anymore, but it is a UNESCO heritage site.

For actual currently inhabited towns we have Moose Jaw.

Besesoth posted:

Arkansas has the venerable Toad Suck.

burial posted:

I just wish I could make out what he’s saying right before “I don’t know.” Somebody help me out.

burial posted:

But right before he says “I don’t know” I swear there’s a (possibly two-syllable) question in the same voice/track that being answered.

“Whose/hoo’s head?”

unintelligible.

“I don’t know.”

My brain just wants the middle bit to be another “who/hoo” but it doesn’t sound like that could be it. This is driving me nuts. I love it.

MrJacobs posted:

Who's head goes all the way around. (I don't know)

Scoop up the field mice. (push out the bones)

Hoo! let the owls out.

Hoo! wears a graduation cap.

thats all there is.

MrJacobs posted:

Its "Uh oh, I don't know"

Jon Joe posted:

Ah, scoop up the field mice! I was wondering what he was saying there.

It is a pretty great song. Wish I had editing software to make a trumpet boy version.

JacquelineDempsey posted:

I got "scoop up the field mice", but swore I heard "puke up the bones", not "push out". Because that is what the owl do.

It is insanely catchy, and I have editing software I've been itching to use. I clearly need more drugs first before I remix it, though.

edit: listening on a better system, it is "push out"

MrJacobs posted:

it probably was, I first heard Scope out the field mice but it made more sense to be scoop up. Doesn't matter if the story is true and he was blacked out on drugs.

Friend posted:

I've listened to this song like ten times today.

Elizabethan Error posted:

there wolf posted:

This is a common misconception actually. You dehydrate from puking long before the salt content gets to you.

Arcsquad12 posted:

Is it possible to suppress the gag reflex long enough to survive at least a while on salt water?

Captain Monkey posted:

Your mom pulled it off, but nobody else has been able to yet.

mng posted:

Watching videos of sprinklers ejecting decades old disgusting water is my new thing. Satisfying.

Platystemon posted:

Thus began the quest for the piss tape.

FruitNYogurtParfait posted:

That song owns and all my weird internet friends think it owns too so good job on that guy

Facebook Aunt posted:

I think there are companys that helps old white ladies compile recipes as a fund raiser thing. My grandma's church made a cookbook that looked just like that 30 years ago. The lady in charge has to sell a certain amount of advertising space in the book (mostly by guilting business owners connected to the church) and then the book company prints their book for 'free'. They get their 200 copies of the book and sell them (mostly to the very ladies that contributed the recipes). So then all the ladies get to see their names in print and the church walks away with a few thousand dollars.

No new money really comes in from outside though, so it seems less like fund raising an more like a lot of busywork culminating with everyone involved donating ten bucks.

Grognan posted:

quote:

No new money really comes in from outside though, so it seems less like fund raising an more like a lot of busywork culminating with everyone involved donating ten bucks.

enough about something awful though

Jose posted:

https://twitter.com/russforussenate/status/993598894129860609?s=19

Catastrophe posted:

Every day. Every single day when i come home this little Fagg just sits there and wears these idiotic jeans.

Say Nothing posted:

Truck truck truck truck truck truck truck truck truck truck truck.

Relentless posted:

Mushroom mushroom?

ChesterJT posted:

Braaaaaaaaaaaake, Braaaaaaaaaaaaake

ChickenOfTomorrow posted:

Paladinus posted:

I did not like the owl song.

Paladinus posted:

I did not like the owl song.

Paladinus posted:

I did not like the owl song.