sebmojo posted:

zack de la rocha snarling meDIcinal PASTE meant for HORSES makes me lol

sebmojo posted:

strong stress metre. Rage against Gerard Manley Hopkins.

sebmojo posted:

strong stress metre. Rage against Gerard Manley Hopkins.

E: I guess you have to start the line a fraction earlier than he does for it to work, but zack de la rocha snarling meDIcinal PASTE meant for HORSES makes me lol

Splicer posted:

You sound like a man who can help me: what is the term for why substituting syllables with soft consonants like s for ones with strong ones like p and d sounds wrong? It's a pet peeve for me that I can never articulate.

Or is that a subset of stressed metre?

Martman posted:

Bon Iver..........mectin

Empty Sandwich posted:

got an example?

nice

Inexplicable Humblebrag posted:

some of those who work forces
want Ivermectin is a medication that is used to treat parasite infestations.[6][7] In humans, this includes head lice, scabies, river blindness (onchocerciasis), strongyloidiasis, trichuriasis, ascariasis, and lymphatic filariasis.[6][8][9][10] In veterinary medicine, it is used to prevent and treat heartworm and acariasis, among other indications.[9] It can be taken by mouth or applied to the skin for external infestations.[6][11]. it's for horses

Splicer posted:

"Don't stop can't stop" has the same syllables as "Fond shore hand shore" but one is all oomph and the other isn't.

Lobok posted:

Well part of it might be replacing a cool, well-known phrase with gibberish.

Empty Sandwich posted:

this is infelicitous and absolutely doesn't fit into the space available, much like someone's mom

Splicer posted:

"Don't stop can't stop" has the same syllables as "Fond shore hand shore" but one is all oomph and the other isn't.

Robobot posted:

I have a conspiracy theory going that this is all some elaborate revenge by horses for humans turning them into paste for generations.

Cartoon Man posted:

Robobot posted:

Bringing new meaning to the phrase "fun bags".

Martman posted:

shorty had that apple-flavored paste,
tubes with no cure,
the whole farm was lookin at her,
she hit the floor (she hit the floor)
next thing you know
shorty got co-co-co-co-co-co-vid

Robobot posted:

I don't know. They've been playing stupid this whole time, but if we accept it's been horses flying around in UFO's observing us it all fits together.

WEED LORD posted:

Goons and poop. Goons and poop. Goons and poop. Goons and poop. Goons and poop. Goons and poop. Goons and poop. Goons and poop. Goons and poop. Goons and poop. Goons and poop. Goons and poop. Goons and poop. Goons and poop. Goons and poop. Goons and poop. Goons and poop. Goons and poop. Goons and poop. Goons and poop. Goons and poop. Goons and poop. Goons and poop. Goons and poop. Goons and poop. Goons and poop. Goons and poop.

(USER WAS BANNED FOR THIS POST)

Inexplicable Humblebrag posted:

horse paste

Chamale posted:

Spiny Norman posted:

Short and sweet one.

It began fairly quietly, by our standards. It was just this past Friday, and being as me and my partner in crime Jameson knew that our pal Dolf had gone through four midterms in the previous week, we decided that we would assuage his spiritual fatigue by bringing over a whole lot of beer to his house and getting him stoopid.

Let me tell you about Dolf.

Dolf is a tall young man who hails from distant Holland, also known as Dutchland, or Germany, and let’s throw Norway in there just for shits and giggles. He looks like someone you could have cut right out of an Abercrombie and Fitch advertisement, and I suppose you could describe his lifestyle as “Eurotrash.” This works due to his love of loud techno that has such classic lines of “Max don’t have sex with your ex; it will make your life complex” and “Fred come to bed cos my Max had sex with his sexy ex.” There is, in fact, an entire genre of sex-oriented techno that progressively tells a complex story of loving Around. I’m sure somewhere Homer is quivering in fear.

As soon as we met him, Dolf was immediately identified as One Of the Guys, noticeably by his habits of beer drinking, chainsmoking, and telling people to go gently caress themselves for no discernable reason at all. Clearly, we have very high standards. As of that time, however, he had shown a keen interest in indulging in “American” and “Texan” passions. Barbecue was one. Other classic Texan traditions included drinking Pearl beer, whooping, and being intolerant, and it is very possible to engage in all of these at once.

But when we arrived to get Dolf drunk, we found that he had gone dove hunting with a friend. This came as a blow to us, as we had wished to take him skeet shooting, but we waited for him to return, mopping up the beer as we did so.

Dolf came back at around eleven. He was visibly excited, and he showed us pictures and videos of himself handling a shotgun, firing a shotgun, and laughing like a small child. After viewing these, we asked about his kills.

“Naw, man,” he said in his oddly sing-song dialect. “Dere were no duffs today. Dey were all gone or somefing.”

Pity.

“Yes, we just did some skeet shooting. Dis friend of mine, he had a very good range.”

“Guns usually do,” I said.

“No, I mean shooting range,” Dolf said.

“Oh, I got it. Sure.”

Pause for beer.

“Yeah,” he said wistfully, and he leaned back in his seat as his eyes became distant. “All I did was shoot a few tayurtles.”

Now, this word came out pretty much how it’s spelled. Vowels obtain a confusing level of flexibility when they come out of Dolf’s mouth, so we could not be certain if he said what he had said. We would need to verify the truth of this.

“Wait,” I said. “What the gently caress? You shot a turtle?”

“Yah, man,” he said. “Two of dem.”

I gibbered. I gabbed. Clicking noises came from somewhere in my throat as I tried to force my mind around this statement.

“Well, dere were no duffs!” he said in defense. “I wass bort! I had to shoot somefing!”

“So you shot some loving turtles?” inquired Jameson.

Dolf shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

In my mind’s eye I imagined the scene taking place. I pictured Dolf standing on the edge of a creek, firing wildly directly down in the water and laughing hysterically. For comedy’s sake, let’s have him dancing in clogs and, I don’t know, yodeling. They do that in Holland, right?

Dolf soon corrected me, and I learned of the epic scale of his story.

We begin with the Dutchman striding over the native Texan scrub, his mighty gun in one hand, the other held to his brow, shielding his steely blue eyes as he squints at the rocky horizon. He has gone upon a hunt, and he must kill to survive. This is the way of the wild.

He takes a great breath, feeling the cold air in his lungs, filling his body with the vivacity of the mountains, and continues down into the woods. There has been no game yet. There has been no honor in this hunt, no pride, no glory.

Suddenly he stops, his body going rigid as he descends into the mesquite. He has seen something. Some hidden threat, some waiting malice. His keen eye wanders to a stream up ahead, and as he studies its path…

There. Turtles. Two of them. Two monsters of the deep, amphibian abominations of an apoplectic animosity. It is well known that many a traveler has vanished in these woods, and here we see the cause, the cunning culprit. No doubt they have been devoured by the marauding demons that rove these untamed valleys.

“Yah, dey vere about twenty feet away or so,” Dolf told me. “Just, like, sitting on a log, man.”

We all know that turtles are basically the Nazi Commie Democrat rapists of the animal world. There is no thought in their head but “KILL” and “TEAR” and “SWIM AROUND AND poo poo.” They are a disease on the face of creation. They are the enemies of all who live and wish to be free.

In short, they are Un-American.

The Dutchman knows what he must do. It is now lo longer about the hunt, but ending a growing evil that has been festering in these valleys. Slowly, with the cold, calculating moves of a born killer, he raises his musket to his shoulder and begins to take aim. Acrid sweat drips down over his brow, but he blinks it away. This must be perfect. There is no room for failure here. If his shot goes astray, they will fall upon him and rend him to pieces.

He waits for the moment, the perfect angle in space.

And then it happens, and he squeezes the trigger.

“De first one died, like, immediately,” Dolf told me emphatically, his eyes wide in awe. This leads me to believe that it did not so much “die” as “suddenly explode.” I suppose this would have been due to the violent introduction of a large portion of buckshot. Apparently a turtle’s shell, while offering adequate protection against, say, frolicking puppies and curious children, does not perform nearly as well when you shoot it with a gun at a mere twenty paces. Take that, Mother Nature.

But we return to the tale.

As the surviving turtle witnesses the death of its mate, its horrid soul rears up in fear. The element of surprise has taken it… um… by surprise, and it knows it must flee and return another day, just as the mother Grendel wished. It leaps away to swim down to the Stygian depths and bide its time.

The Dutchman knows he cannot let this be. As the brood of Cthulu makes its getaway, he begins to pound it with more artillery fire, seeking its rank flesh below the line of the river.

“De little fahker tried to get away,” Dolf said. “So I just started shooting de water. I could see de fahker’s head. I must have shot it about four times or so.”

Being as most hunting shotguns only hold three shells, this means that Dolf was so intent to destroy these turtles that he stopped and reloaded. Most interesting. Of course, I could be wrong and he could have been using a different model of gun, but I prefer it my way.

We return to the story.

The Dutchman’s shots find their way home. Lead rips through the black waves, biting into the backside of the nefarious creature. It cries out in pain and begins to sink, its last sick thought naught but rage and fury at its foiled plans.

Dolf nodded his head wisely as his tale came to a close. “Tayurtles are tricky little fahkers.”

Jameson and I reacted in the way that anyone would have if they heard this noble tale, which is to say that we were roaring with laughter. Give a Dutch guy a shotgun and he starts detonating turtles. This is what the U.N. is all about, I say.

As for the fate of the turtles, all I can say is that, when the time comes, Morbo can wish those stalwart nomads peace among the Dutch tulips as much as he wants, but I doubt if they will find it. More than likely they will find a six and a half foot man loping around, blasting everything that he can see with a Remington. And serve the little fuckers right.

In my opinion, Dolf is not simply a foreign exchange student. He is a folk hero in the making. Like Tom Joad, may he triumph over turtle adversity and oppression where ever he goes. Godspeed, fair Dutchman. Godspeed.

Martman posted:

shorty had that apple-flavored paste,
tubes with no cure,
the whole farm was lookin at her,
she hit the floor (she hit the floor)
next thing you know
shorty got co-co-co-co-co-co-vid

Kith posted:

https://i.imgur.com/mAW8u40.mp4

Bad Munki posted:

Perfect if you just want a light breeze

Lobok posted:

Well part of it might be replacing a cool, well-known phrase with gibberish.

Captain Monkey posted:

Even other nonsense with the same rules sounds neater somehow.

Lobok posted:

Yeah I know but it was just funny that we were expected to go "why aren't these two phrases equal?!"

But isn't the answer just that hard consonants have more impact? "Fond shore hand shore", unless you perfectly enunciate the D sound, is all soft sounds. Your examples have K sounds that you can't slur past.

Lobok posted:

Your examples have K sounds that you can't slur past.

Paladinus posted:

Schnipp schnapp, kopf ab.

Lobok posted:

Yeah I know but it was just funny that we were expected to go "why aren't these two phrases equal?!"

But isn't the answer just that hard consonants have more impact? "Fond shore hand shore", unless you perfectly enunciate the D sound, is all soft sounds. Your examples have K sounds that you can't slur past.