Guy Mann posted:

From the TVIV Twin Peaks thread.

Spanish Manlove posted:

I call bullshit on goons not being able to immediately recognize food.

Terrible Robot posted:

I have such sights to show you.

read from this post onward
https://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3770505&userid=0&perpage=40&pagenumber=29#post459943640

It really starts to get good on page 32. Palpek is a hero.

Solice Kirsk posted:

I love that thread. It's filled with posters that fall over themselves to look for "clues" and somehow manage to miss the entire point of every scene.

Absurd Alhazred posted:

So it's a TVIV thread?

whiggles posted:

i hear the bang, i know its a dream

the rush of adrenaline jerks me out of it and i throw the covers off. my eyes trail over to the glow of the monitor in the darkness. my clammy hands grasp the mouse and i open the threads, all of them, the posts spew forth from me like so much poo poo

im the guy in the OP
for the win
loling over here
5
ffffffffffffffffffff

its getting bad, the white noise is ringing in my ear and i come across more of my posts. i check the time, but i dont need to, the eloquency gives it away, the emptyquotes go on for pages. i look for the messages, he is talking to me, but for all the substance of his words, the code is jarbled and useless to me. i wonder what verbose wonders must be hidden inside my trash and my eye catches the PM box. its still full, but i dont dare clean it out, afraid of the content, the threats or the encouragement, it doesnt matter, the acknowledgment would be me stepping headlong into a world i will never accept.

i grab the gun from my windowsill, the cold steel is damp from the dew and it slips out of my grasp and hits the hardwood, creating a terrible clamor that i try to tell myself is evidence that this is happening. but its not enough anymore, all the pinches, the hot water, they dont add up to a real person. how long can this go on? i get a firm grip on the pistol this time and my fingers tingle. reality is just the dream we are all sharing, but how what about the nightmares? how can the other side be any worse than this? hell is other posters and heaven is the ban we are all too afraid to ask for. i put the barrel up to the right side of my brain, afterall he is the creative one, i should at least give him a chance. i cock it, the moisture from the handle mixes with my sweat until i cant tell which is which. i take one more breath and go past the last exit, my fear is shoved aside in the final moment by amazement as i swear i hear a cold mechnical voice echoing from within the computer...

"i know this isnt what you are looking for, but might i suggest A Song of Suicide and Oblivion by Samuel R. R. Colt?"

the hammer falls

i dont hear anything

Terrible Robot posted:

I have such sights to show you.

read from this post onward
https://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3770505&userid=0&perpage=40&pagenumber=29#post459943640

It really starts to get good on page 32. Palpek is a hero.

Solice Kirsk posted:

I love that thread. It's filled with posters that fall over themselves to look for "clues" and somehow manage to miss the entire point of every scene. It also spawned one of the most beautiful gifs I've ever seen:

Improbable Lobster posted:

TVIV seems to be full of the dumbest people on planet The Earth

Snowglobe of Doom posted:

And then there was the time that a male and female character snuck away from the rest of the team and spent the night together in a hotel and a bunch of people were like "Well maybe they just talked, we don't know whether they hosed or not."

Trig Discipline posted:

It's like these people have never even heard of Chekhov's Cock.

We Know Catheters posted:

No one cares about some Russian's clock.

Tezzora posted:

i don't care you boring nerd.

mind the walrus posted:

Does anyone have that quote about some libertarian getting up in the morning and using a bunch of public utilities before going online to post about how awful and incompetent the government is?

And the companion piece about the libertarian paradise where a guy wakes up and basically runs his house like a warlord while paying for literally everything?

buddhanc posted:

i sat in my living room sipping my cup of chicory and looking out my window and pondering my choices. overhead flocks of ghang gliders soared through the soot, taking advantage of the unregulated skies to make their morning commute. i shifted, somewhat uncomfrtable. i needed to make a decision soon, before my neighbor rumbled out of his driveway in his abrams tank and the vibrations from the tearing of pavement made the decision for me

i read through the billboards on the sidewalk again. joe's sewage: faster than anyone! poo poo-b-gon [as i read the name i silently thanked z0r for the death of the nannu state and the freedom to curse in public]: no clogs! there were five others that i passed over, but i knew, that morning, i was a poo poo-b-gon man. i trotted outside and grabbed the sewage hose that sat dribbling on my lawn. where was the nearest linkup station? i jogged down the street, briefly warming my face on the fire from my neighbor's house, before i tripped on a stray corpse and fell face first onto the sidewalk. as i pushed myself up and wiped the blood [not mine ] from my hands, i saw the linkup station. after paying my thirty dollar day-fee [a small price to pay for fredom] and jogging the mile back to my house, i was soon happily doing my business. like a free man

i jammed my foot on the gas and grinned as my engine roared. it was free of catalytic converters and other emasculating controls, and at last, was the robust and mighty machine i had always known it could be. i flipped my sunglasses open and jammed them over my eyes and the cloud of black smoke behind me was witness to the power of my works. ther umble of gravel beneath me was like glorious harmony to the howl of the engine. for nearly fifteen seconds i was grinning like a maniac as the car jolted and crunched down the crumbling street. of course , i had to slow and toss my tiny cube of gold into the toll box, and wait for my neighbor to wave me past, but soon i was back to full speed, living life as free as the birds used to do before we shot them all.

i downshifted into third as i caught side of an unfamiliar barricade ahead. smoke rose in a plume behind the stacked wood and bodies. as i came to a stop a man with a cigar gritted in his teeth and a shirt soaked red and cracked sunglasses waved me to roll down my window.

"what seems to be the problem?"

"new repairs on this stretch. going to need double tolls till weve got it fixed"

i grimaced as i searched around my glove box for an extra cube. at this rate id never make the public hanging...


i run into the center of bear-baiting ring. my stomach churns as i face the beast. howls and cries from the crowd wash over me like hypodermic needles at the beach. i feint left b ut as i push off the blood-soaked earth my foot explodes throgh the my shoddily-constructed shoe. with a silent curse for whatever nameless ten-year-old sewed it i kick it off and dash to the right. thank z0r i always ccw, i think to myself as i air-somersault past the bear. the crowd of mercenaries roar at the sight of my acrobatics.

if i can win the crowd then perhaps the king of this stretch of road will let me go...good thing i have an ace up my sleeve.

make that two, i think as i pull out my twin desert eagles, locked and loaded with the finest hollow-tip bullets that our local toy/gun store carry. the recoil from both firing at once knock me back against the blood-drenched wall of the arena but i keep firing at the bear.

as it finally staggers back and crashes to the ground i air somersault forward again and kneel, crossing my arms in front of my chest and holding my guns against my shoulders and feeling the cheers of the crowd wash over me. i have won my freedom. i let only the briefest pity for the less skillful travelers wash over me, but content myself with the thought of penning a scathing letter against these mercenaries tonight. then i grin. score one for the market, motherfucker


shoeless and gasping i run down the road toward the city, dodging shards of glass and the bones of long dead children. i had paid the last toll with my car itself. once the consortium has purchased enough of sick and dying bodies from the local hospital to grind into cement, we'll have our new roads [or so the ads promise], but it's too late for my car.

i hear a faint stirring in the underbrush that stretches out toward the asphalt. with all the nimbleness of an unregulated manufacturer responding to demand, i do a three-quarters cartwheel while simultaneously firing ten shots from my dual DEs. i chuckle at the crashing and groaning from the brush in the silence after my deafening barrage. oen step closer to that new road.

i take off running again. by three p.m. i'm at the office. as i approach the elevators there's a deafening crash and smoke comes from behind the elevator doors. i note the name of the manufacturer and use my bleeding feet to write a message of warning on the floor of the hall. i ignore the moans and take the stairs to my office.

my manager scuttles toward me as i enter. "eight hours late? you're fired. and you can be sure no other company will hire your scummy rear end in the future"

my left eye twitches as i calmly respond. "you forgot one thing."

"what's that?"

"there's only one monopoly we don't tolerate. a monopoly of force." i backflip as i pull out my DEs and start firing. the screams of the dying fill the air like mercury. this is one market that just got regulated.

before i leave the office, i loot the bodies of my dead coworkers, murdered by my hand, like an irs employee mailing a 1040. i leave the office a tomb; a blood offering to the hungry god i worship now. stepping back into the stairwell is like stepping through a looking glass. i am wearing shoes ripped from the dead feet of my former boss. call it an audit.

with a ninja's grace i leap from stair to stair as i exit the building. light bulbs flicker and dim; the local smallpox epidemic is two weeks old and they've almost run out of bodies to burn for power. they're talking about charging customers one child per year as fuel. some people were upset about it but at least the government isn't behind it.

my shoulders are heaving as i crash through doors into the lobby. a pack of wolves lurk around the receptionist's desk. night is almost here. they begin to howl as i jog outside into the gathering darkness

i check my watch—6 oclock. I had meant to run a few errands before going home. Just one, actually. I run down the street until i see a dimly-lit verizon store. the salesman doesn't even blink an eye when i enter, dripping blood and gore, desert eagles jammed in my waist. then i pull out my guns and point them in his face.

he blinks.

"i paid 5 bucks more last month, you know?" i growl between gritted teeth
"so?" he says
i put the guns back in my waist. the salesman exhales in relief

then i kneel and draw my katana. with one smooth motion i behead the clerk.

"i wish to file a complaint," i say, as gouts of arterial blood spray paint the ceiling.

at last i'm home. i recline back in my babyskin chair and swirl some orange juice in a mug. as i bring the mug up to my limits i feel a sudden pain in my lip. i fish around in the juice and pull out a shard of glass. rolling my eyes i toss it on the pile in the corner.

my pet tiger pads into the room. not for the first time i offer a silent thanks that no gang of criminals can tell me not to keep it. then i see the blood dripping from its jaws.

i curse as i ease out of my chair and walk into the next room, following the blood. the corpse of my neighbor's son is still warm on the floor of the kitchen. i turn on the alarm system and set up the house defenses just in time for the doorbell to ring.

I look out my front window; my neighbor is carrying a shotgun and has a crazed look on his face. I call out:

"What do you want?"

"I want that damned tiger."

"No."

"GIVE ME THE TIGER."

"Come and get him."

My neighbor shudders as he considers his options: 1) wait to ambush me later, 2) attack now, 3) write a scathing letter and mail it to all our neighbors. He cocks his shotgun and fires it at the door.

My defense system activates. With fury and power that would warm the heart of a Blackwater soldier it reduces my neighbor to ash. As the whir of the chainguns slows i walk back to my babyskin chair. it feels soft. it feels warm. it feels like freedom.

alarms wake me from my slumber. not my house; the neighborhood coop alarms are ringing. i listen to the sound. next to me my slave girl stirs. i casually backhand her across the mouth to keep her quiet. three horns followed by a low ringing—possible outsider invasion.

i check to see that her chains are secure then lower myself out of bed. a low whistel summons my tiger. i press a button next to my bed; a slave child scurries in. i order him to bring me my katana.

wrapped in my robe and with my sword strapped across my back i slip outside into the ringing night. the noises are coming from the south. i see a neighbor across the street slap his wife in the face as she begs him not to leave and i thank z0r no slave has tempted me.

the light from torches flicker in the distance at the watch point. there are already several neighbors gathered in a circle. i can hear a low muttering but i cannot see what they have surrounded

i reach the outside of the circle with my tiger at my side. it carelessly bites one of the men in the circle on the leg. he falls to ground and i take his place and see...

it is worse than i had feared...a face as dark and soulless as the night sky looks up at me. tears stream down his face. i shudder at the thought of more of them...out in the darkness...i lope away from the circel and call my tiger to my side. tonight...we hunt


i see the fear in their eyes as i approach the campfire. i wear a chain of tiny ears around my neck and my face is spattered with blood. i grip the head of my enemy in my right hand.

ashen-faced, my neighbor asks me of the forces in the darkness

"it's a group seeking medicine for sick children," i reply. "it was." i suppress a giggle. i toss the little head into the middle of the circle.

"are you ok?" one asks

the others mumble, afraid to look me in the eyes

i look him in the eyes. he twitches. i say

"sanity is like a rule. a regulation. i am free."

i heft my katana in my right hand, then bring it to his neck

"will you question me, or will you do as i say."

it is not a question.

"a man chooses" i say.

they kneel before me. alarms wail in the distance. i see the earth soaked in a tide of blood. i finger the necklace of ears like a rosary.

"we are strong," i say. "together we are free".

they murmur in assent. one man remains quiet. i remove his head, then hand it to one of my followers.

"we are free. put it on a stake, to warn those who would oppose us."

i order the rest of the men to secure the neighborhood gold. we will keep it at my house; i will disperse it as necessary. the gold is mine...the precious...

...

i sit on a throne of skulls inside my new house. palace. i run my fingers through the head of the slave who kneels at my side. in my other hand i grip the femur of a dead enemy. a slave used a rock to hone the end of the bone to sharp points. the walls and floor are red, spattered with blood and smeared with dirt; the ceiling is black with soot. my tiger stalks outside.

when the snows come we move to the caves in the hills for warmth. i will spread my seed.

a beast stirs. i breath in the fetid air, thick with blood and death. law is dead. i am the law. the market is dead. i am the market. i scratch at my fur loincloth and crush a louse. government is dead. i am the government. god is dead. i am a god.

somewhere in the distance i hear the howl of the alarms and the chatter of guns.

and this is heaven.


But you remember one thing: if you screw up just this much, you'll be flying a cargo plane full of rubber dog poo poo out of Hong Kong!

epilogue

the cave is dark but warm. the women huddle under furs and blankets for warmth during the day. i lead the hunting parties out in search of game but any creature larger than a chipmunk has long since been slaughtered. we hunt squirrels and rodents with our AK-47s; sometimes a scrap of meat is still left after the hail of bullets.

one of the women is heavy with my child. i alone may mate with them. the heads of the men who objected rot on stakes outside the cave mouth.

one evening after we have returned from our mighty hunt with two squirrel carcasses and a dead robin someone almost tripped on, we spy a man in the distance staggering toward the cave. we watch as he winds his way through the badlands. black snow falls, mixed with ash. his powder blue shirt is badly torn and bloody and there is no spark in his eyes.

he begs us for shelter. i explain that our food supplies are low but that there is room in our cave if he will hunt and accept my rule. he nods, exhausted, and starts to shuffle past me to the fire.

then i catch sight of the patch on his sleeve. a stylized white eagle on a field of blue. the mark of the oppressors. i grab his collar and growl in his face "you're one of them"

"what? what are you talking about"

"one of them. the patch. the eagle."

"p-p-please...i just...delivered mail"

i grip his throat in my hand and lift him and shout "A CRIMINAL!!!!!"

my tribe huddles around me.

"HE WORKED...FOR THE GOVERNMENT!!!"

i see the rage in their eyes. hooting, they jump up and down, calling for blood. i lower the man to the ground and they mutter with disappointment. i beckon for a slave to bring me my club: all sharpened bone and shattered glass. i put my mouth next to the man's ear and i grasp the club and hold it in front of his eyes. "If you want a vision of the future," I say. "Imagine my warclub, smashing a human face, forever."

then i swing it against his head, and it crunches, and he falls to the ground. "we eat meat tonight" I say with a smile. the cheers are deafening.

mind the walrus posted:

Does anyone have that quote about some libertarian getting up in the morning and using a bunch of public utilities before going online to post about how awful and incompetent the government is?

And the companion piece about the libertarian paradise where a guy wakes up and basically runs his house like a warlord while paying for literally everything?

mind the walrus posted:

Thanks guys you're the best

swamp waste posted:

From the "Something Awful" Gentlemen's Gazette, May 20, 1940

Dear sirs,

I am writing to express my agreement with BigDickHootinSailor13's
missive of May the 6th, specifically with regards to the inferior
quality of the first decade of Technicolor moving pictures.

It seems to me both unnecessary and distasteful
that such quantity of labor and money were expended on the de--
velopment of color film techniques, merely so that we in the
audience could clearly perceive that each actor has had their
face painted in a manner characteristic of a Fag.

Please find enclosed an image of the policeman from Krazy Kat
appearing to smoke marijuana.

I remain,

The Constructivist Gamer

Malachite_Dragon posted:

Legend of Korra was just as bad. Goons getting all twisted up over a goddamn Nickleodeon cartoon for kids

SaltyJesus posted:

CommissarMega posted:

It's a good show that hopefully helps normalize LGBT acceptance even among kids

Malachite_Dragon posted:

Oh I have no beef with the show itself and the ending pair was a nice change from the norm, I was just pointing out how angry adult goons were being over a show not even for their age bracket

lmaoboy1998 posted:

Baby 1: Goo goo ga ga.

Baby 2: [Shits audibly into nappy]

Me: You see this, this right here, is why I don't like to admit I watch the Teletubbies. I don't want to be lumped in with the absolute fuckwits that call themselves the series' fans.

MageMage posted:

I wrote President Obama to release Chelsea, using female pronouns, and sent Chelsea letters of support and postcards of beautiful landscapes once a week.

You're welcome.

I did get one letter from her

I'm sure she wouldn't remember me, though, I would love to meet her in person.

Trig Discipline posted:

Why would you use female pronouns for Obama?

AlphaKretin posted:

ArfJason posted:

I TOOK POST MASTER BECAUSE WITH A NAME LIKE THAT HOW COULD I NOT WHOOPS CAPS LOCK

Guy Goodbody posted:

I try not to let my consumption define me, but it's hard when you're dying of tuberculosis.

McGavin posted:

I think you mean a small pastry.

Ghostlight posted:

Osama is not going to sleep with you.

Crane Fist posted:

If I wanted to gently caress a guy who's only legacy is creating a hideous atrocity I'd call your dad

DOWN JACKET FETISH posted:

haa. i understand the reference.

Gumbel2Gumbel posted:

Comptroll The Forums posted:

Misread as Obama, still worked

Raspberry Jam It In Me posted:

Must be much, much lower. I think it's very hard to get an HIV infection through saliva, so go ahead

Also, if you want to calculate your overall infection probability for one session, it's

p_overall = 1 - (1 - p_anal)*(1 - p_vaginal)*(1 - p_oral)

(p_vaginal if applicable, other wise set it to 0)