The Awful Implications of First-Person Shooter Games -- powered by Cracked.com

Three Word Phrase : Blood Gun

“Love is a snowmobile racing across the tundra and then suddenly it flips over, pinning you underneath. At night, the ice weasels come.” - Matt Groening

"In an effort to calm public fears about weapons testing, Annie was an "open shot" -- civilian reporters were permitted to view it from News Nob, 11 kilometers south of the shot-tower. Annie was a weapon development test, it was an experimental device (code named XR3) that provided additional information to normalize the yield-vs-initiation time curve. It was a Mk-5 HE assembly using a Type D pit, and used a betatron for external initiation (the third such test). Total device weight was 2700 lb, predicted yield was 15-20 kt."

Hunger does what sorrow never could.

Energy without reason. Continually satiated by the stream of impulses fed in through the senses. Inventing new senses to keep them untarnished. Keep them segregated from the current to try and hold on to what once was. There was hunger once. There was anger there. There was.. something. Once punch to calm the nerves. Two to help you sleep. Any more and you slip back down that shit stream you paddled and struggled and fought against to get where you are. You drank from the stream. You bathed in it to help. You laughed. YOU LAUGHED in its wake. Watched the motor boats stream by throwing up a wave of brown water high in the air. You opened as wide as you could and let it pour all over you. It was your fuel. You giggled in that shit stream. What happened? Where did it go? It's still there. Right out the window. If anything its more convenient than ever to dip your hands in that filth. Have you changed? Has it changed? Do you age and forget?

Fuck that. Fuck those tools. Fuck that old way. IAAM STILL ANGEREY GODDAMNIT!! FUCK! Point and laugh. I can still shake your bones with my scream. I can still break your will. I can still strap on the boots and kick in your teeth. I can still lift. bitch bitch bitch. Isn't that what it has always been? Hasn't it always been the bitching? Yes and no. It had purpose. I had purpose. I haven't lost that purpose. I am not complacent. I am still a human being goddammit. Part of the shit stream. The matter of relation has changed though. And maybe that is the point. Maybe that is what age brings. You feel like an alien walking among what used to be humans. It doesn't look human anymore. Is that the path of progress? Is that how it's always been? Is this unique to our time? We, the aging observers look for some small glimpse of skin or blood. Something to relate to. Something to redeem our faith. Something to justify our care. Something. Anything. Dig and dig and dig, finding only feathered bangs and fucking i don't even know what to call it. Is that was has changed? We don't know how to find that last little spark of humanity? We.. I don't know how so it sinks down and sits. It waits for that spark. The beast that roamed so freely now isn't tamed but confused. It doesn't know what it is looking at. Prey or predator. What do you tell a creature that knows one thing when that one thing doesn't seem to exist anymore?

Waiting, watching, breathing. Slow and steady. Breath deep. The shit is still there and I still hate it. I bring my glass to that river. I will dip it in the shit water. I will raise it high as I toast the loss of mankind. And as that filth spills all over me, it will be my laughter they hear because it's all so fucking hysterical.

madness.. madness..

Not Everything. Not Yet.

The Second Coming - W.B. Yeats

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.


Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

Conan Answers

Alma

“Almost nobody dances sober, unless they happen to be insane.” ― H.P. Lovecraft

Concerns Over North Korean Missile Tests Confirmed

Children of the Black Mountain

Koloss

Every Itchy & Scratchy Cartoon

I may find peace within the ugliness. How pitiful.

Coming home this evening at around 12:30, I was narrowly missed by a drunken man in his white vehicle. This fact is not unusual in and of itself, however, following his near miss of me, he continued into a parking lot and plowed into a cement embankment. I pulled into the parking lot and called the police. The black man had blacked out, either from alcohol or head injury, and his friend in the back seat was equally as piss drunk and unconscious. I waited for the police to arrive to tell them what I had seen then went on my way.

I wonder, tomorrow, when they are nursing their heads and sitting in the county jail, will they wonder how they got there? Will they wonder who saved their lives by avoiding their vehicle? Will they wonder how any of their night prior played out after they left wherever they were pounding round after round to numb the sense of meaninglessness that permeates their day to day? Or will they just try to look as hard as they can for their mug shots.

“I’ve come to hate my own creation! Now I know how God feels.” - Homer Simpson

Mark Twain: A Presidential Candidate

I have pretty much made up my mind to run for President. What the country wants is a candidate who cannot be injured by investigation of his past history, so that the enemies of the party will be unable to rake up anything against him that nobody ever heard of before. If you know the worst about a candidate, to begin with, every attempt to spring things on him will be checkmated. Now I am going to enter the field with an open record. I am going to own up in advance to all the wickedness I have done, and if any Congressional committee is disposed to prowl around my biography in the hope of discovering any dark and deadly deed that I have secreted, why—let it prowl.

In the first place, I admit that I treed a rheumatic grand­ father of mine in the winter of 1850. He was old and inexpert in climbing trees, but with the heartless brutality that is char­ acteristic of me I ran him out of the front door in his night­ shirt at the point of a shotgun, and caused him to bowl up a maple tree, where he remained all night, while I emptied shot into his legs. I did this because he snored. I will do it again if I ever have another grandfather. I am as inhuman now as I was in 1850. I candidly acknowledge that I ran away at the battle of Gettysburg. My friends have tried to smooth over this fact by asserting that I did so for the purpose of imitating Wash­ ington, who went into the woods at Valley Forge for the purpose of saying his prayers. It was a miserable subterfuge. I struck out in a straight line for the Tropic of Cancer because I was scared. I wanted my country saved, but I preferred to have somebody else save it. I entertain that preference yet. If the bubble reputation can be obtained only at the cannon’s mouth, I am willing to go there for it, provided the cannon is empty. If it is loaded my immortal and inflexible purpose is to get over the fence and go home. My invariable practice in war has been to bring out of every fight two­thirds more men than when I went in. This seems to me to be Napoleonic in its grandeur.

My financial views are of the most decided character, but they are not likely, perhaps, to increase my popularity with the advocates of inflation. I do not insist upon the special supremacy of rag money or hard money. The great funda­ mental principle of my life is to take any kind I can get. The rumor that I buried a dead aunt under my grapevine was correct. The vine needed fertilizing, my aunt had to be buried, and I dedicated her to this high purpose. Does that unfit me for the Presidency? The Constitution of our A Presidential Candidate 5 country does not say so. No other citizen was ever considered unworthy of this office because he enriched his grapevines with his dead relatives. Why should I be selected as the first victim of an absurd prejudice?

I admit also that I am not a friend of the poor man. I regard the poor man, in his present condition, as so much wasted raw material. Cut up and properly canned, he might be made useful to fatten the natives of the cannibal islands and to improve our export trade with that region. I shall recom­ mend legislation upon the subject in my first message. My campaign cry will be: “Desiccate the poor workingman; stuff him into sausages.”

These are about the worst parts of my record. On them I come before the country. If my country don’t want me, I will go back again. But I recommend myself as a safe man—a man who starts from the basis of total depravity and proposes to be fiendish to the last.

Break Those Bones Whose Sinews Gave it Motion

8 Animal Misconceptions

i guess it is just that kind of day

“One of the few good things about modern times: If you die horribly on television, you will not have died in vain. You will have entertained us.” — Kurt Vonnegut

John Carpenter's The Thing - Done with Pingu

Paddy Ashdown: The global power shift

“When I was young, I believed in three things: Marxism, the redemptive power of cinema, and dynamite. Now I just believe in dynamite.”

- Sergio Leone