Hogge Wild posted:

that was the post of the year

Crow Jane posted:

Whatever happened to good old-fashioned American do-it-yourselfness? Stupid Sexy Flanders, I bet you could make your own with a trip to the hardware store and a little gumption.

Lunchmeat Larry posted:

what's wrong with him

Breetai posted:

Its not GEcafe without a loose sausage casing.

VanSandman posted:

It's the turning the whole thing into a metaphor for food. I've eaten tomatoes. I don't want to think of tomatoes like that.

Adaptive Systems posted:

By all means, spend your one brief moment above the dirt toiling for the satisfaction of your
imaginary biological teleology, as an earlier generation toiled for its imaginary god.
By all means, cradle your woman in bed, and do not think about the treachery that beats in her
heart, so close to your own.

Do not think about the way she will forsake you, after the many years you spend drying her tears,
for a perfect stranger whose smell she finds more enticing, or whose clothing peaks her curiosity,
or who has nothing whatsoever to offer her other than the simple fact that he is not you.
Do not think about the truth that the mother of your children, the woman who pledged before her
god to die with you, will find reasons to blame you for her unhappiness the moment she has her
chance to make a life with a man of greater material means. Do not think about the fact that she
will be happier in her new and larger home, and that she will not think of you alone, nor will she
feel remorse.

Do not think about the way your children, to whom you gave the gift of life, for whose education
you expended the best years of your only life in soul-killing drudgery, will institutionalize you
without regret the moment you become any sort of emotional or financial burden, just as you did
to your own.

You spend the balance of your life tending to the pain of a stranger, to whom you are a stranger.
You believe that this will make your pain bearable, that your acts of mercy towards another will
be returned in kind.

They will not.

You rebel against this truth, because you are too young, and too naive, and too untested by life to
understand it.

Say whatever you wish about those of us who see the folly of this agony, for we are not
concerned by your fear of us, and understand your need to pretend that it is you who have found
that better end of this bargain.

Resist the fact that you are not loved, as an earlier generation resisted the fact that it must die.
Eventually, the considerable time you spend alone in miserable solitude will grant you
opportunity for detached observation of humanity, something people who run around giggling
with their lovers never get. You will find it depraved and bestial. You will turn your hatred
outwards to all of humankind and loath both women and men; You will become purified by your
hatred, morally invincible and free from the bonds imposed by human companionship, free to
wage the unwinnable, glorious war of reprisal on an intrinsicly twisted and brutile ethnos eversodomized
by the universal order of eternal injustice.

There is a reason that all the world’s religions have insisted on dragging down the possibility of
love between humans and made it subordinate to the love of an Other that is perfect, precisely
because that Other is beyond our reach. The best of lovers is the one that is far, far away, to
whom you write love letters in fervent anticipation, and who is not besmirched by the endless
disappointing humiliation of contact. And that is why it is those who truly love best, the forsaken
soldiers dying in distant lands, suffer the most, for they love the most, and the most sincerely.
That perfect lover, the one that patiently dries all of your tears, that knows all of your fears
without thinking less of you, that comforts you in the long nights that precede those most
desperate of trials, cannot, and does not survive contact. That is precisely why the greatest lover
cannot, must not, be met. And that is why the most desperate of lovers call their beloved God and
say to themselves that were He to be seen, were merely His name to be spoken, it should mean
certain death.

And that is why for the lovers of God heartbreak is always merely a prelude to an even more
passionate reconciliation, because their beloved always takes them back, always accepts them
back into its bosom, for that beloved which those penitent lovers seek to draw near is permitted
one ultimate, unconquerable strength denied to all other things of which we can have thoughts. It
does not exist. And in not existing, it does not suffer as a lover does, when the pain of its beloved
is inflicted upon it. And it does not become frightened, when it sees how much its beloved has to
fear. And it is not wounded by the infidelities of those who swear eternal love, for it has no heart,
and no mind, and no presence, and no existence, and no way to hurt, and no way to suffer, and it
cannot lie awake at night in your arms, thinking about how foolish it once was to believe in your
perfection, and feel those first timid thoughts of escape into the arms of another, one that shall
remedy your failings. As the perfect lover does not exist, so the perfect love is that of what does
not exist. And that is why, unlike the soldiers abandoned by those that sealed their treachery with
solemn kisses, the priests suffer not at all, for they love nothing at all, and are not kissed, not by
any, forever, for all time.

Some of us are destined to never find companionship, never find lasting solace in the arms of
another, and the sooner we accept this, the sooner a new world of previously unimagined dangers
opens up to us.

In the exploration of these dangers, we become living testaments to the virtues of struggle, and
gain a stamina that others shall never have the privilege to know.

Rather than drift into slumber in the bed of an eternal stranger, we seek a bed of flames, and with
no partner, no pair, no twin, we attain a singular uniqueness and inflict upon ourselves a solitude
that is the unhealing wound from which all our strength flows.

We alone know that all flesh is grass, that all promises are fantasies, that all dreams are narcotics.
We alone live without lies, without the need to enslave or to be enslaved.

We write the stories of our lives patiently, and from the other side of death. The realm of eternity
is ours alone.

swamp waste posted:

This isn't good. This is the writing style and intellectual acumen of a guy who shoots up his high school 10 years after he graduated

Volkerball posted:

Trying to find an older quote. It was from a guy describing a tabletop game he played with some kid who didn't take the game seriously. The kid was running around hitting everything with a hammer, and eventually, he ended up stuck in a pit and got everyone killed by hitting dynamite with the hammer. Anyone know what I'm talking about?

quote:

This is a repost, originally from the forums at Something Awful, but I couldn't find it in the archives anywhere and couldn't resist sharing it with you guys. This story, along with the Tale of Old Man Henderson and some others figured prominently in my recent acquisition of the CoC rulebook, definitely for all the wrong reasons.

I'll try to remember it in full. It's a worst experience, so it fits in here.

A friend of mine, one of my regular players, borrowed my Call of Cthulhu material and decided he was going to run a game at the gaming society we both attend. This was a bad idea for a couple of reasons, the first being that it's hard to do evocative horror when you have a busy, happy background going on around you (unless you're specifically playing up the social alienation angle). The second, and more important, reason it was a bad idea was because he invited Donnie to play.

Donnie is a good guy. I ran a Blue Rose campaign, he played in it, and it was great fun for all involved. However, Donnie is not a subtle guy, and he's not the sort of guy who can experience horror or exercise fearful judgement when it's required. As evidence toward this, when the group was rolling up reasonable, urbane, ordinary Call of Cthulhu characters, he decided to make a doctor.

With maximum ranks in the "headbutt" skill. More points in "headbutt" than he had in "medicine", and his character was a doctor. My friend convinced him to at least make his "medicine" skill equal to "headbutt", and the game proceeded on track.

You know the old saying, "Give a man a hammer, and everything looks like a nail?" Well, when you turn a man into a hammer, the same thing is true. Donnie tried to headbutt everything even vaguely problematic. It started with a door that wouldn't open, escalated to an ATM (which he scored a critical success against, and landed some free cash) and climaxed with him headbutting a skeleton after stumbling out-

Let's wind it back a bit. During the course of the adventure, when they started encountering horrific skeletons that stalked their every move during the night, the party decided to tool up on weaponry. They visited a mall, broke in, and decided to ransack some of the shops to acquire weapons. Someone got a fire axe from a hardware store. Most got guns from a gun store. Donnie, since he liked fireworks, decided to drive to the local mining supply depot while this was happening, and after headbutting his way into a badly locked supply shack he made off with a backpack full of dynamite.

Eventually they tracked the skeletons down to an old well in the back garden of a manor house, and after a bit of research discovered that it had a cursed stone in at the bottom. Being pro-active, Donnie suggested they lower him into the well with a flashlight and his dynamite, and he'd rig it to blow. It sounded plausible, so they lowered him down with the flashlight and a pistol, and waited until he was in place.

Messing around in the thick mud at the bottom, his flashlight soon failed. Not alarmed, Donnie started feeling around to find the cursed stone, and was in the process of feeling its edges when the cursed blood he was sloshing around in began to form into yet more skeletons, as it was so dark down there it might as well be night. A skeleton grabbed the rope and pulled it down, and then began wrestling with him, dragging him into the mud.

Donnie let out a shout. Up at the top of the well, the rest of the party thought he was asking for the dynamite, and tossed it down. Desperately, Donnie began to headbutt the dynamite, hoping to set it off before the skeleton flayed him alive. Cue the following exchange:

"He's taking a long time down there." "Can you see what's going on?" "No, my flashlight isn't working." "Give me those matches."

The player fumbled and dropped the match, and Donnie simultaneously landed a critical hit with his headbutt.

A massive explosion blew the well to smithereens. Rolling on the resistance table, Donnie survived the initial explosion, was thrown several blocks away, and crashed into some lady's house, breaking his legs. Understandably panicked, the lady called an ambulance, and five minutes later it turned up. At this point Donnie regained consciousness, and rather than be taken to hospital, he held the ambulance crew up with his pistol and stole the ambulance.

Meanwhile, a horrible, rapidly decaying, muddy skeleton made from blood and charred, broken stone clawed its way out of the well in the shadow of the (now wrecked) house and began to advance on the party. Cue a massive combat that grew rapidly more tense, until it was interrupted by the sound of...

Sirens? The ambulance crashed through the fence, ran over the skeleton and screeched to a halt. Donnie, his legs broken, staggered out of the ambulance and fell to the ground, right beside the pinned monster. It proceeded to try and grab him, and he responded the only way he knew how.

With a headbutt.

Edit: and remember, it's Doctor McHeadbutt. He worked long and hard for that PhD in Aggressive Phrenology.

Furious Mittens posted:

This whole film was birthed in a tub of reject emo placenta.

JesustheDarkLord posted:

Darth Vader

FactsAreUseless posted:

Those are loving delicious candies. Unrelated, I am a Something Awful moderator.

Enourmo posted:

actually i think you'll find that the trick is to write jokes that a 13 year old wouldn't look at and go "dude grow the gently caress up seriously"

Enourmo posted:

also, lesbians/bisexuals. its 2016, women can legally have wives now.

Zamboni_Rodeo posted:

Man, it's true what they say about stuff on the internet following you around forever.

BattleMaster posted:

Gordito posted:

Jeesh, Sports Illustrated Swim Suit Edition continues to get creepier every year...

The MSJ posted:

Wizard Master posted:

Most of these quotes suck poo poo to be honest.

Canemacar posted:

So how long before bed each night do you pray for the Great Old Ones to descend from the dark behind the stars and consume all life on this planet?

china bot posted:

Machai posted:

a man swerves toward the oncoming lane and into another car. taking his phone light out and running over to the wrecked car he spies a mother and her two children. grasping the nearest by the shoulders, he shakes it madly, yelling "my nigga have u tried being an alcoholic"

Sylink posted:

OSHA: Whats the terminal velocity of an unladen bolt down an elevator shaft?

Platystemon posted:

Metric or ANSI?

Sham bam bamina! posted:

Yes, the motive is what's notable here, not its expression.

The MSJ posted:

Sham bam bamina! posted:

Aaaaaaaaand it's been goldmined.