You may think I am dead.
But no, I am just resting.
My final is tomorrow.
My notes are still digesting.
As soon as it's finished,
I'll release a mighty howl.
You haven't heard the last
From yer Berserker pal.
There's much blood yet to be spilt. Despair not, lest it be yours.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
parachutes permit propulsion from precipices to punish prey
What are your favorite uses for your own lengthy mane? Follow-up: have you ever used it to kill? Describe the killing in detail with pictures wherever possible.
Science has recently demonstrated that the primary evolutionary purpose of hair is to increase drag during rapid descents. One would not think that slowing down is at all in keeping with the noble way, but I have discerned a reasonable explanation for this evolutionary contradiction.
Picture this-
You have herded or stalked your quarry into a deep valley. They have the advantage in numbers, but you have the advantage in frenzy. You leap, axes in hand, into the void that lies between will and blood. Your intention is pure, your body is without mercy, your mind is crystalline and sharpened to a killing edge, and you're about to achieve terminal velocity. Virtuous fury be damned, it's called "terminal" velocity for a reason- you may smash one or two foes into the dust, but you'll find that being reduced to a bloody paste will significantly curtail your capacity for further berserking.
Now, the richly-maned alternative-
You leap, once more, into the void. The blackness of oblivion again looms in the periphery of your frenzied vision. You plummet, screaming, toward Valhalla. And then, what's this?! A great winged shadow spreads beneath you! The guardian angel of death?
Indeed, my bloodthirsty friend: the angel of death.
Illustrative images shall be appended as needed.
Science has recently demonstrated that the primary evolutionary purpose of hair is to increase drag during rapid descents. One would not think that slowing down is at all in keeping with the noble way, but I have discerned a reasonable explanation for this evolutionary contradiction.
Picture this-
You have herded or stalked your quarry into a deep valley. They have the advantage in numbers, but you have the advantage in frenzy. You leap, axes in hand, into the void that lies between will and blood. Your intention is pure, your body is without mercy, your mind is crystalline and sharpened to a killing edge, and you're about to achieve terminal velocity. Virtuous fury be damned, it's called "terminal" velocity for a reason- you may smash one or two foes into the dust, but you'll find that being reduced to a bloody paste will significantly curtail your capacity for further berserking.
Now, the richly-maned alternative-
You leap, once more, into the void. The blackness of oblivion again looms in the periphery of your frenzied vision. You plummet, screaming, toward Valhalla. And then, what's this?! A great winged shadow spreads beneath you! The guardian angel of death?
Indeed, my bloodthirsty friend: the angel of death.
Illustrative images shall be appended as needed.
Monday, July 7, 2008
licking coke while poking glass means choking on sokal's dick with your ass
ROB: on a hooker... what parts are reserved for doing blow, and what parts are reserved for eating sushi?
Hookers can be your best friends or your worst enemies. It's all a matter of keeping them in good spirits. Tipping helps, but the real secret to happiness is to coat the entire surface in a thin layer of nose-candy, much like how you might bread a chicken cutlet:
This may not leave much (any) room for sushi (unless you enjoy what I like to call "Kate Moss Rolls"), but I saw on a Martha Stewart special that you can avoid having problems by serving the sushi on his/her/its clean bill of STD-free health. If one of these is not available, a condom can make an adorable sushi tray. One per roll, kids.
GRACE: how does one remove sand from a vagina?
What, it's theme night and nobody told me?
Science teaches us that when you melt sand, it fuses together and turns into glass. Since its melting point is pretty high, you're probably going to need to light up some white phosphorus to get things going. [Thermite may be an acceptable alternative.] Once it's good and melted, you can choose to get creative, or you can just let it cool off before cracking it into smaller, more easily-removed pieces.
Stay safe!
DOUG: for god's sake, when is the 80s revival finally going to stop?
The excessive irony and meta of the 90s has rendered it all but completely untenable as a subject for standard nostalgia. Fortunately, the impending collapse of civilization means that we should be looking at pre-apocalyptic nostalgia within the next 5 years.
In the meantime, keep hangin' tough.
Hookers can be your best friends or your worst enemies. It's all a matter of keeping them in good spirits. Tipping helps, but the real secret to happiness is to coat the entire surface in a thin layer of nose-candy, much like how you might bread a chicken cutlet:
This may not leave much (any) room for sushi (unless you enjoy what I like to call "Kate Moss Rolls"), but I saw on a Martha Stewart special that you can avoid having problems by serving the sushi on his/her/its clean bill of STD-free health. If one of these is not available, a condom can make an adorable sushi tray. One per roll, kids.
GRACE: how does one remove sand from a vagina?
What, it's theme night and nobody told me?
Science teaches us that when you melt sand, it fuses together and turns into glass. Since its melting point is pretty high, you're probably going to need to light up some white phosphorus to get things going. [Thermite may be an acceptable alternative.] Once it's good and melted, you can choose to get creative, or you can just let it cool off before cracking it into smaller, more easily-removed pieces.
Stay safe!
DOUG: for god's sake, when is the 80s revival finally going to stop?
The excessive irony and meta of the 90s has rendered it all but completely untenable as a subject for standard nostalgia. Fortunately, the impending collapse of civilization means that we should be looking at pre-apocalyptic nostalgia within the next 5 years.
In the meantime, keep hangin' tough.
bifrost bridges bind bands of belligerent boys and beasts in battle
Where did you put all the rainbows?
janey, 10
Thanks for writing, Janey!
Long ago, in the days before axes were replaced by briefcases, the deeds of the mighty warchief Karlor Skwigelf caught the attention of a wicked intelligence beyond the reach of light or comprehension. They crossed their blades, and much blood was nobly shed. In the end, finding themselves both equally matched and equally mutilated, they sought a solution both more brutal and more cunning than delivering mutual deathblows (as was considered good manners in those days).
Instead of striking one another down, they struck a deal:
Man, who held power over the realm of flesh, would righteously spill the blood of his foes, and it would trickle down into the soil. Dripping down through the earth and into the unknown black sepulchre of the screaming realms, the blood would feed that mysterious adversary.
Strengthened, this Other would then fly heavenward and play at slaying angels, which is what the immortals do instead of videogames. Angels, being dull, bleed only water when wounded. But the adversary, sly as he was, used this angel-blood to forge a multicolored bridge between Asgard and Earthrealm, as a symbol of their mutual understanding. This was the origin of the rainbow. For as long as a warrior could stand at the end of one of these rainbows, he would drain the strength of the Valar and grow incomprehensibly formidable.
Everybody won!
Lately, though, it seems that we have not been righteous enough in pursuit of martial glory. They grow tired in the dark places, grinding their teeth and waiting to feast. Sharpen your axe, little Janey, and strike out for glory. Treat your schoolyard chums to a nice rainbow, and say hi to Thor for me. The old ways are good.
Your pal,
Berserker
Thanks for writing, Janey!
Long ago, in the days before axes were replaced by briefcases, the deeds of the mighty warchief Karlor Skwigelf caught the attention of a wicked intelligence beyond the reach of light or comprehension. They crossed their blades, and much blood was nobly shed. In the end, finding themselves both equally matched and equally mutilated, they sought a solution both more brutal and more cunning than delivering mutual deathblows (as was considered good manners in those days).
Instead of striking one another down, they struck a deal:
Man, who held power over the realm of flesh, would righteously spill the blood of his foes, and it would trickle down into the soil. Dripping down through the earth and into the unknown black sepulchre of the screaming realms, the blood would feed that mysterious adversary.
Strengthened, this Other would then fly heavenward and play at slaying angels, which is what the immortals do instead of videogames. Angels, being dull, bleed only water when wounded. But the adversary, sly as he was, used this angel-blood to forge a multicolored bridge between Asgard and Earthrealm, as a symbol of their mutual understanding. This was the origin of the rainbow. For as long as a warrior could stand at the end of one of these rainbows, he would drain the strength of the Valar and grow incomprehensibly formidable.
Everybody won!
Lately, though, it seems that we have not been righteous enough in pursuit of martial glory. They grow tired in the dark places, grinding their teeth and waiting to feast. Sharpen your axe, little Janey, and strike out for glory. Treat your schoolyard chums to a nice rainbow, and say hi to Thor for me. The old ways are good.
Your pal,
Berserker
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
collapsing hemispheres; other fears
300 word, 5 paragraph essay on the ramifications of Dr. Mixalot's smash hit in the development of quantum computers/Helen "Yoshimitsu" Hunt's acting in Twister, plz!
The thing about bottoms, if there is such a thing, is that they can channel this new rap music into a means of tearing us all apart. It's representative of a growing undercurrent that's shadowed my entire life. The separation of the singular, unified (notional) public into demographics and subcultures. Rap music is not my scene, but I am connected, across the division, to people whose scene it very much is.
This connection maps several iterations downward onto the phenomenon of quantum decoherence. As universes branch off from every collision of a superposition with our "external" reality, we reenact this inevitable cultural splintering. In a quantum-parallel universe several branches back, I became a rap guy. So did you. The quantum superposition is a computational state of grace, and if we could replace our material bodies with qubits encoding every aspect of our bodies and minds, we could become everything at once. The undifferentiated stem cells of bein, before the fall.
Hunt, on the other hand, is shown as irretrievably beyond the reach of the quantum fall. The tornado becomes, for her, the singular uncanny. There is no superposition there, no "maybe it is tearing me apart and maybe it is not"- observation consistently prevents coherence, shredding thousands of splinters of universe-probabilities in every direction. And, speaking of direction, when will we go from referring to it as "space-time" to referring to it as "space-time-probability?" Just another dimension along which we are forbidden from moving. Another ever-present limiting factor.
The tornado is less a quantum situation than a chaotic one. If you incorporate qubits into chaotic systems, they expand to simultaneously cover dangerous amounts of territory. Human beings are consistent systems, but we are also chaotic. The danger of being everything at once is how much that includes; the horror of it.
For the head of a dead zaibatsu, whether a cultural movement such as rap, an abandoned field such as storm-chasing, or digital reality, the whole essence of reality can only be accumulated in the slightly comedic ending cinematic. We're approaching the fall of America, peak oil, the end of the Long Count, McKenna's novelty spike, the tipping of the global climate, and other hilarious punch-lines. A genre of music where men talk about knives, bitches, gold; a spate of ersatz apocalypse-cinema dwarfed by current events; the death of cryptography and privacy, the awakening of the AI. Laugh it up, sinners.
The thing about bottoms, if there is such a thing, is that they can channel this new rap music into a means of tearing us all apart. It's representative of a growing undercurrent that's shadowed my entire life. The separation of the singular, unified (notional) public into demographics and subcultures. Rap music is not my scene, but I am connected, across the division, to people whose scene it very much is.
This connection maps several iterations downward onto the phenomenon of quantum decoherence. As universes branch off from every collision of a superposition with our "external" reality, we reenact this inevitable cultural splintering. In a quantum-parallel universe several branches back, I became a rap guy. So did you. The quantum superposition is a computational state of grace, and if we could replace our material bodies with qubits encoding every aspect of our bodies and minds, we could become everything at once. The undifferentiated stem cells of bein, before the fall.
Hunt, on the other hand, is shown as irretrievably beyond the reach of the quantum fall. The tornado becomes, for her, the singular uncanny. There is no superposition there, no "maybe it is tearing me apart and maybe it is not"- observation consistently prevents coherence, shredding thousands of splinters of universe-probabilities in every direction. And, speaking of direction, when will we go from referring to it as "space-time" to referring to it as "space-time-probability?" Just another dimension along which we are forbidden from moving. Another ever-present limiting factor.
The tornado is less a quantum situation than a chaotic one. If you incorporate qubits into chaotic systems, they expand to simultaneously cover dangerous amounts of territory. Human beings are consistent systems, but we are also chaotic. The danger of being everything at once is how much that includes; the horror of it.
For the head of a dead zaibatsu, whether a cultural movement such as rap, an abandoned field such as storm-chasing, or digital reality, the whole essence of reality can only be accumulated in the slightly comedic ending cinematic. We're approaching the fall of America, peak oil, the end of the Long Count, McKenna's novelty spike, the tipping of the global climate, and other hilarious punch-lines. A genre of music where men talk about knives, bitches, gold; a spate of ersatz apocalypse-cinema dwarfed by current events; the death of cryptography and privacy, the awakening of the AI. Laugh it up, sinners.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
panic-stricken, stapling pancakes in sickening maple
Can you tell us a few interesting things about furniture varnish and how?
The varnish can improve any setting from rich to poor, provided you attend all the necessary seminars. In a minor confrontation, apply directly to the victor's forehead for an increase in both growth and virility. You can use almost any situation to steer into the wind for a cut above the rest, but don't let the bastards back you into a corner if you've been using your hand gestures appropriately. They can always tell a lion by its comfortable fit and flecks of copper.
Deny everything after they draw and quarter you; you can have whatever you want.
The varnish can improve any setting from rich to poor, provided you attend all the necessary seminars. In a minor confrontation, apply directly to the victor's forehead for an increase in both growth and virility. You can use almost any situation to steer into the wind for a cut above the rest, but don't let the bastards back you into a corner if you've been using your hand gestures appropriately. They can always tell a lion by its comfortable fit and flecks of copper.
Deny everything after they draw and quarter you; you can have whatever you want.
met with unsettling sins of the flesh, one may die or win by getting fresh
Turning on you, or turning you on? Honesty is key now, no repression in secession.
Both at once, always, everywhere.
Both at once, always, everywhere.
mason-dixon models facin' maces may need makeup-fixin'
Nick: I've been driving through virginia for hours. Cigarettes are seventeen dollars a carton and gas is under four dollars but I still feel unsettled. I heard a warning today that following the son may prevent eternal burning and I'm not sure how to align my love for jesus christ with my desire to tan for the miss america contest.
Please help. Frazzled below the mason dixon line, Betty Lou Freeberg.
Dear Bouncing Betty,
Before the pageant begins, fill the basement of the convention center with as much gasoline as it can hold. See if you can pump it full enough that the contents are under significant pressure. Then, during the "talent" portion, (they still do that, right? If not, force them to) light and consume a whole carton of smokes, and casually flick one at a trail of gasoline leading to your massive reservoir of death.
If you time it right, the force of the blast should rocket the building directly into the sun, giving you a chance to get the world's sickest tan. Your competitors may be distressed by their impending demise, so explain that you're just doing yer Christian Duty and letting god sort 'em out. The burning should be temporary.
Yers in Krist: Nick
Please help. Frazzled below the mason dixon line, Betty Lou Freeberg.
Dear Bouncing Betty,
Before the pageant begins, fill the basement of the convention center with as much gasoline as it can hold. See if you can pump it full enough that the contents are under significant pressure. Then, during the "talent" portion, (they still do that, right? If not, force them to) light and consume a whole carton of smokes, and casually flick one at a trail of gasoline leading to your massive reservoir of death.
If you time it right, the force of the blast should rocket the building directly into the sun, giving you a chance to get the world's sickest tan. Your competitors may be distressed by their impending demise, so explain that you're just doing yer Christian Duty and letting god sort 'em out. The burning should be temporary.
Yers in Krist: Nick
Monday, June 30, 2008
mammon's merciless miltonian marriage massacre
Dear Berserker,
I'm a big fan of Milton's Paradise Lost, but I can't seem to make it function in practical situations!
Please help. An upcoming dinner party hinges on my success in this matter.
Sincerely,
Mammon in Tights
Dear Mammon,
The story of Adam and Eve, as retold in Paradise Lost, can be tasked to function as a stirring critique of the kind of relationship that leads to dinner parties. The original sinners, naughty as they were meant to be, fundamentally serve as a schematic for dull relationships produced by settling for what's as hand.
What other choice did either of them have? They put up with one another, took what was available, found the whole thing a bit dull, and their efforts to pass the time wound up getting them kicked out of paradise. Quotidian domestic drudgery is the enemy of the delightful. Who the hell has time for dinner parties when they're busy screwing to the point of death by exhaustion? Nobody. The dinner party itself represents the same brand of inadequacy outlined by Milton.
The devil himself will choke on the irony, if the cooking doesn't get him first.
Regards,
Berserker
I'm a big fan of Milton's Paradise Lost, but I can't seem to make it function in practical situations!
Please help. An upcoming dinner party hinges on my success in this matter.
Sincerely,
Mammon in Tights
Dear Mammon,
The story of Adam and Eve, as retold in Paradise Lost, can be tasked to function as a stirring critique of the kind of relationship that leads to dinner parties. The original sinners, naughty as they were meant to be, fundamentally serve as a schematic for dull relationships produced by settling for what's as hand.
What other choice did either of them have? They put up with one another, took what was available, found the whole thing a bit dull, and their efforts to pass the time wound up getting them kicked out of paradise. Quotidian domestic drudgery is the enemy of the delightful. Who the hell has time for dinner parties when they're busy screwing to the point of death by exhaustion? Nobody. The dinner party itself represents the same brand of inadequacy outlined by Milton.
The devil himself will choke on the irony, if the cooking doesn't get him first.
Regards,
Berserker
a doppelganger's dagger-dance duet
Nick,
Who would win in a fight between you and your doppelganger, and can you prove it?
Cringingly,
Thomson
Thomson, I understand your concern. Frankly, the possibility of a world with more than one of me is frightening even to ponder. Even locked in mortal kombat, there's the possibility that my clone and I might become distracted enough from eviscerating one another to notice the whole rest of the world waiting to be devoured. And with our forces combined, we'd either be unstoppably powerful or just dangerously disoriented. Risky business indeed.
As for brutalizing my own doppelganger, I've put some thought into the matter. The result depends on the duplication process. If it produces any discernible difference between the doppelganger and myself, every moment he took adjusting to it is a moment I could spend plotting how to use it against him.
The standard evil twin comes equipped with a sweet goatee, as seen here:
While my doppelganger was busy being distracted by his newly awesome facial hair, I'd be finding the nearest implement to tangle into that stuff and rip his face off. The same basic principle applies to any other variation.
In the other case, (where we are entirely indistinguishable, even to ourselves) one of me would be the winner either way. Good enough. Either way, I'd get to eat the flesh of my other self, absorbing his powers and becoming exponentially mightier than ever before.
For proof, I have a detailed predictive computer model of the fight. It can be viewed by using a microscope to examine the glint in my eye.
Who would win in a fight between you and your doppelganger, and can you prove it?
Cringingly,
Thomson
Thomson, I understand your concern. Frankly, the possibility of a world with more than one of me is frightening even to ponder. Even locked in mortal kombat, there's the possibility that my clone and I might become distracted enough from eviscerating one another to notice the whole rest of the world waiting to be devoured. And with our forces combined, we'd either be unstoppably powerful or just dangerously disoriented. Risky business indeed.
As for brutalizing my own doppelganger, I've put some thought into the matter. The result depends on the duplication process. If it produces any discernible difference between the doppelganger and myself, every moment he took adjusting to it is a moment I could spend plotting how to use it against him.
The standard evil twin comes equipped with a sweet goatee, as seen here:
While my doppelganger was busy being distracted by his newly awesome facial hair, I'd be finding the nearest implement to tangle into that stuff and rip his face off. The same basic principle applies to any other variation.
In the other case, (where we are entirely indistinguishable, even to ourselves) one of me would be the winner either way. Good enough. Either way, I'd get to eat the flesh of my other self, absorbing his powers and becoming exponentially mightier than ever before.
For proof, I have a detailed predictive computer model of the fight. It can be viewed by using a microscope to examine the glint in my eye.
booming grooming keeps us zooming
Dear Nick,
How is it that you can use the words "butt," "sauce," and "Marinetti" in the same sentence and maintain the glossy sheen of your berserker locks?
Love, Santa
Like this: "Marinetti once held an entire village hostage for ten days by threatening to cook his own <3utt in their only chef's most treasured marinara sauce pot."
Ironically, he later took a bunch of speed and did it anyway, and that is the exact secret recipe for Be®se®ke® brand conditioner. Keeps yer locks shining like the fresh-spilt blood of yer foes.
Love, Vidal Berserker Sassoon
How is it that you can use the words "butt," "sauce," and "Marinetti" in the same sentence and maintain the glossy sheen of your berserker locks?
Love, Santa
Like this: "Marinetti once held an entire village hostage for ten days by threatening to cook his own <3utt in their only chef's most treasured marinara sauce pot."
Ironically, he later took a bunch of speed and did it anyway, and that is the exact secret recipe for Be®se®ke® brand conditioner. Keeps yer locks shining like the fresh-spilt blood of yer foes.
Love, Vidal Berserker Sassoon
lovely locks leave lonely ladies lusting
Nick, why haven't you donated your hair to Locks for Love yet? Do you just not have a soul, or what?
A friend of mine from my fencing days caught cancer, and wound up doing the whole chemo/hair-loss adventure. It was not the best. I offered my hair, if she wanted it, but she didn't. She's still staying alive, and still beating the fuck out of people, but I'm still hanging onto it in case she changes her mind.
If I knew LoL were gonna make my hair into a wig and give it to some sad cancer kid, I'd probably do it. But if they're just going to turn it into money, I'd rather not. If all they're getting out of my donation is money, I'd be just as well selling my own hair and donating the money to curing cancer.
Or using my hair as a garrotte to slay my enemies so I can donate their hair.
A friend of mine from my fencing days caught cancer, and wound up doing the whole chemo/hair-loss adventure. It was not the best. I offered my hair, if she wanted it, but she didn't. She's still staying alive, and still beating the fuck out of people, but I'm still hanging onto it in case she changes her mind.
If I knew LoL were gonna make my hair into a wig and give it to some sad cancer kid, I'd probably do it. But if they're just going to turn it into money, I'd rather not. If all they're getting out of my donation is money, I'd be just as well selling my own hair and donating the money to curing cancer.
Or using my hair as a garrotte to slay my enemies so I can donate their hair.
dental domestication for the sake of decimation
Nick, why do so many people have to get their wisdom teeth extracted?
Shouldn't evolution have made our teeth come in straight?
Impactfully yours,
Andrew's teeth
Dearest teeth,
Here's the thing about wisdom teeth: they provide us with the unique opportunity to get pieces ripped out of our faces. Often, getting bodyparts ripped loose from one's person is accompanied with a significant loss of functionality (of one sort or another). Not very cool. On the other hand, getting a wisdom tooth yanked out of yer face is brutal and awesome, and it only makes life easier, so there's no reason not to.
It might seem that evolution should favor straight teeth, for function's sake. However, this ignores an important point-- evolution favors the agonizing, the brutal, and the terrifying. If you were a predator, which prey would you choose: the well-adjusted, well-fed, straight-toothed one, or the screaming, agonized, horribly crooked-toothed monster? (Your answer should be "both", but you see my point.) It is evolution's duty to make us unstoppable killing machines, and it does this admirably.
Good luck surviving the mutilation that shall soon befall you. If you don't make it, I shall see you someday manning the awesome fanged ramparts of Valhalla.
Yer pal,
Nick
Shouldn't evolution have made our teeth come in straight?
Impactfully yours,
Andrew's teeth
Dearest teeth,
Here's the thing about wisdom teeth: they provide us with the unique opportunity to get pieces ripped out of our faces. Often, getting bodyparts ripped loose from one's person is accompanied with a significant loss of functionality (of one sort or another). Not very cool. On the other hand, getting a wisdom tooth yanked out of yer face is brutal and awesome, and it only makes life easier, so there's no reason not to.
It might seem that evolution should favor straight teeth, for function's sake. However, this ignores an important point-- evolution favors the agonizing, the brutal, and the terrifying. If you were a predator, which prey would you choose: the well-adjusted, well-fed, straight-toothed one, or the screaming, agonized, horribly crooked-toothed monster? (Your answer should be "both", but you see my point.) It is evolution's duty to make us unstoppable killing machines, and it does this admirably.
Good luck surviving the mutilation that shall soon befall you. If you don't make it, I shall see you someday manning the awesome fanged ramparts of Valhalla.
Yer pal,
Nick
unceremonious introduction disco
It's about that time again.
Time to be honest with ourselves. When we live with someone who's immortal, omnipresent, and ambidextrous, its hard to really know if you are alone when you are with your special person.
Admit it. You've always had some questions for Mr. Salvatore. How'd you know I love to be picked up? Where do you get all of those tvs? Do you really just have a cartilage skeleton that enables you to bend so awesomely?
So now's the time. Ever wanted to ask God a question? This is kind of like that.
I'll start.
Nick, what's the best way to gut a fish?
Well, Jordan, it looks like you have a lot of questions today. Let's start from the beginning:
(It all started when I was having a brawl with the devil about the merits of sausages over tacos. We were both choking each other in mutual brutal guillotine holds, when I noticed we were both getting turned on. Must have been that auto-erotic asphyxiatiawhatsit, like on after-hours German pirate TV. Fair enough.
So I flipped her around and we screwed so hard that the inside of the monster truck overheated, hydrogen fused, and the engine block [which was bigger than a fucking city block, because back then they knew how to make fucking cars] blew up. It took out the entire Gigafuckarena, Oroboros-truckasuarus included. Let me tell you, the audience was so impressed they all cried tears of blood, then napalm, then blew up.
They're calling it the big bang these days, but I've had better.)
Now for yer questions:
1) I knew you love to be picked up because you have a body, and the body's natural inclination is to be flung awesomely through the air (either by explosions or strong Scotsmen who have run out of logs). Different people are in different degrees of denial about the underlying nature of bodily being, and this can even induce false consciousness and force them to think they don't like being picked up, but on some level they know this to be false.
You never struck me as the type to lie to yerself, so up you went.
2) The TVs come from dumpsters, mostly near my home. Cultural fascism has apparently convinced some people that there's ever any reason not to have more TVs, but this is tragically short-sighted.
3) Years of hauling an excessively heavy backpack at a formative age caused me to require a great deal of back-stretching and similar contrivances in order to face junior high without crippling agony. Then that didn't work, so I tore the spine out of one of those Cirque de Soleil creeps and paid my local barber-surgeon to sew it in. (I felt guilty about shafting him on the barber end of business, and wanted to do a good deed to impress my mom.)
4) Hold it in yer right hand, bite down around the head or middle, and jerk yer head sharply to the left. The process can be mirrored if yer right hand fails to work properly. If you have no hands, use yer teeth to place the beast on a sturdy table and apply headbutts to its flank.
Yer unstoppable pal,
Nick
Time to be honest with ourselves. When we live with someone who's immortal, omnipresent, and ambidextrous, its hard to really know if you are alone when you are with your special person.
Admit it. You've always had some questions for Mr. Salvatore. How'd you know I love to be picked up? Where do you get all of those tvs? Do you really just have a cartilage skeleton that enables you to bend so awesomely?
So now's the time. Ever wanted to ask God a question? This is kind of like that.
I'll start.
Nick, what's the best way to gut a fish?
Well, Jordan, it looks like you have a lot of questions today. Let's start from the beginning:
(It all started when I was having a brawl with the devil about the merits of sausages over tacos. We were both choking each other in mutual brutal guillotine holds, when I noticed we were both getting turned on. Must have been that auto-erotic asphyxiatiawhatsit, like on after-hours German pirate TV. Fair enough.
So I flipped her around and we screwed so hard that the inside of the monster truck overheated, hydrogen fused, and the engine block [which was bigger than a fucking city block, because back then they knew how to make fucking cars] blew up. It took out the entire Gigafuckarena, Oroboros-truckasuarus included. Let me tell you, the audience was so impressed they all cried tears of blood, then napalm, then blew up.
They're calling it the big bang these days, but I've had better.)
Now for yer questions:
1) I knew you love to be picked up because you have a body, and the body's natural inclination is to be flung awesomely through the air (either by explosions or strong Scotsmen who have run out of logs). Different people are in different degrees of denial about the underlying nature of bodily being, and this can even induce false consciousness and force them to think they don't like being picked up, but on some level they know this to be false.
You never struck me as the type to lie to yerself, so up you went.
2) The TVs come from dumpsters, mostly near my home. Cultural fascism has apparently convinced some people that there's ever any reason not to have more TVs, but this is tragically short-sighted.
3) Years of hauling an excessively heavy backpack at a formative age caused me to require a great deal of back-stretching and similar contrivances in order to face junior high without crippling agony. Then that didn't work, so I tore the spine out of one of those Cirque de Soleil creeps and paid my local barber-surgeon to sew it in. (I felt guilty about shafting him on the barber end of business, and wanted to do a good deed to impress my mom.)
4) Hold it in yer right hand, bite down around the head or middle, and jerk yer head sharply to the left. The process can be mirrored if yer right hand fails to work properly. If you have no hands, use yer teeth to place the beast on a sturdy table and apply headbutts to its flank.
Yer unstoppable pal,
Nick
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