bee eater posted:

SweetWillyRollbar posted:

I met a traveller from a toilet land,

Who said—“One vast and bowlless trap of stone

Stand in the guest bathroom. . . . Near them, on the tile.

Half sunk a shattered tank lies, whose handle,

And scratched lid, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its plumber well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The flapper that mocked them, and the valve that fed;

And on the pedestal, these words appear:

My name is ButtTheShitmanFart, King of Kings;

Look on my Watercloset, ye Mighty, and despair!

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level tiles stretch far away.”

Android Blues posted:

cetacean slunge grotto

nut posted:

Evil Bob posted:

sing this post from the drat rooftops

Deep Glove Bruno posted:

the matrix was originally conceived as a sequel to commando "only even gayer" but when rae dawn chong backed out of the project they had to retool it and drop arnold, the fake south american dictatorship and all the cool stuff john matrix was gonna do with hand tools and shoulder mounted SAMs and stuff. the wachowskis claim "we knew it was gonna be poo poo without john matrix throwing sawblades through dudes heads so we just cooked up some old bullshit about computer aliens for filler and hit print. really disappointing"

Barking Gecko posted:

Gimme the beets boys and free my soul . . .

Gramps posted:

I thought I shat blood in the toilet bowl

google THIS posted:

Day 3482

We are still stranded on this godforsaken planet. The infant sun beats down on us, mocking us with its laughter, forcing us underground. We can only survive brief excursions during the day, and even so, the nights are worse. As the laughing sun sets we must all race inside and seal our home up tight against the darkness and what lurks in it.

We have subsisted on toast and custard for what feels like ages. That is, what little we can gather from the dispensers before the Noo Noo steals it. Like most of the other machinery we salvaged from our crashed ship the Noo Noo has gone completely rampant, causing chaos, commanding us rather than obeying our commands, dispensing our rations and controlling our activities seemingly at random. Fits of madness are our only reprieve, times when our minds can escape into childish games or giggles at our own torment.

Our only hope is rescue, so we have tuned our cyborg implants to listen for any transmission. Like everything else, our implants have gone faulty, and only one of ours will be functional on any given day. Even our makeshift windmill amplifier does little to help.

Long have we waited for a comforting message from our homeworld, some promise that help is on the way, and so we still gather in excitement whenever one of our screens winks to life. More often than not the transmission is actually a British child telling us about some boring field trip or activity they did at school. But it is our last grain of hope, and so we continue to watch each transmission with a facade of enthusiasm even after hundreds of disappointments. Truthfully, however, I don't know how much longer we can hold out.

How Wonderful! posted:

First thing's first is I get a job in town, not a good one, but a job. And every week I make a small deposit down at the bank under an assumed name. Just little drips. Maybe a slice of bread. Maybe a piece of cheese. Maybe a couple of handsome wet lettuce leaves. Why? So when anybody asks why I'm hanging around outside the bank on a weekday morning, I can say, why, I'm here to make a deposit and I guess I got here early. Here's my card. Here's my account.

But really?

What I'm doing is watching the trucks. Every morning, like clockwork, the trucks. Taco trucks. Halal trucks. Icecream trucks. Burger trucks. Trucks full of samosas. Trucks heavy with breakfast sandwiches, the kind that come wrapped up in foil and exhaling curls of smoke, the good kind, the kind that make you forget what the rest of the day has balled up in a hard fist behind its back. They pull up, the lunch trucks, with the same heavy-lidded drivers, the same cigarette-smoking men who ferry their hauls into the bank with empty expressions, the same tired old men keeping watch in the back with unloaded pistols at their soft, pale hips... and I'm right there watching. Learning. Remembering.

And all this time I'm going to work and coming home and going to work and coming home, and the dame is there waiting for me, a little less patient every day, asking when? When? And I say hold your horses doll-face. Lunch happens when it happens. And maybe she's had a little to drink and she'll scratch and swap at my face and cry and keep saying when when when until she tires out but every night it ends the same, the two of us coiled together on the kitchen floor, whispering "patience, patience," into each others' hair.

The hardest part besides the waiting is modifying the trailer. We bought a big, handsome trailer, the kind that hitches onto the back of a truck, that the suburban parents and the fat retirees like to buy to take on their vacations or move into their suburban dream homes. A huge, unwieldy thing. But ours is different. A false back on a hinge, a kind of secret door-- large enough to eat lunch in front of. Large enough to hide a truck behind.

Finally, the day comes. It's pizza day down at the bank. Folino's has a truck out front, and I watch the trim young men hop out and head in. The driver ambles off to have a cigarette around the corner. That means it's just me and the squirrely old man with the gun. I'm fine with that. Killing's an ugly business but it's an ugly world. I leap in silently, and take the springy dough out of my pocket, forming a loose, flat disc. I prefer to work with plain bread flour, like I learned in the war. New York boys talk a big game about semolina, the special water in the faucets, but that's not what this is about. I toss the dough in the air a few times, spinning it like a roulette wheel, and then it's over the old man's head, and he's kicking, and then, before long, he's not kicking at all, and he'll never be kicking again. 40 seconds. That gives me plenty of time and at this point it's like I can smell the lunch, can taste it on my tongue. But not yet, not really.

I slip a couple pepperonis in the ignition, an old trick but a good one, and I'm on the road, taking the corners hard and reckless, and before long I'm backing into the trailer. I'm giddy and I feel the dame pull out and onto the highway and I know we're on our way to the picnic spot, and I feel every bump in the road. I can't take it anymore. I start ripping into the burlap sacks jostling all over the back of the truck, I need to know what's for lunch. And then I see it. The scuffed cardboard corners, the sickly yellow packaging. It's a Lunchable. Pepperoni pizza. Snickers. You've seen it and you know it too. My heart sinks and I toss it aside, digging for hot crispy pizza underneath. But my fingers dig into more cardboard. Lunchable, Lunchable, Lunchable. I tear open the next bag and it's Lunchables as far as the eye can see. I can't help it. I start laughing. I start laughing at the tasteless beige crust and the sugary sweet sauce and the cold, starchy cheese and I keep laughing, I laugh when the feds pull us over and I laugh when they drag me into my prison and I'm laughing now, strapped to the electric chair, I'm laughing at the pious faces of the guards and the wardens and the prison chaplains, and I'm laughing and I'm laughing and on my lips I have only the taste of Capri Sun. Pacific Cooler flavor.