Your illegal blackmail or continued public defamation and lies and character ASSASSINATION of me to get attention for yourself is low vibrating shit that you will be accountable for that is very actionable.
A long time ago, I used to play a game. That game was Tit=== oops, sorry, had to dodge a sniper's bullet there. STOP.
Let's continue. As a courtesy, I will forgo the usual, traditional act of re-establishing dominance. So there. Any objection? That's a trick question... I don't give a single ripe wet shit about your objections, Punylings. That's what dominance is all about.
N'est-ce pas? And you! You! Back there, in the second to last row! Stop fucking that one, turn to your left forty degrees, now--fuck the
other one. Good. Wait, roll up your left sleeve. No, no: your
military left. Now, things are perfy. Now drink this. DO IT. DON'T CHOKE.
>Z
Time passes. There is a mailbox here. You get the joke.
Like I thought, back in the day. This game I speak of, it was a successor to Magic: The Gathering, which no doubt many of you have heard of, but I doubt many of you ever played it with the guy who designed it, or, played any of the other games he designed, with him, while passing around an assortment of clever and smart-looking hats. Look, I know I don't get out much--that's on record--but when I do go out, I party hard.
And, yes, in case you were wondering, the guy who invented Magic: The Gathering is a supreme dork. Thin, wispy physique, brown socks, the whole 'tard package. I mean, don't get me wrong, you know I don't hate, but this guy... well, considering what he let the suits do to his allotment of bottled lightning, well, if you gave me a gun and a defibrillator, I wouldn't have to sit down to ponder which one to use on him first, it'd be a week-long preparatory celebration to find out, in the most sportsperson-like fashion, which body parts to use both tools on first.
But that was after I had already stopped playing Magic--as you can see, I've taken the core principles of the game to The Next Level And Then Sum, and boy are my arms tired from all those years of shuffling and pretending I was just cold reading, Psych--and the game I'm going to reference here now was titled... wait, do you hear anything? Okay, me neither.
The game was named Jyhad. It was about vampires. You know, not like Larry King or Jerry Seinfeld, the ones like turn to smoke, suck your blood, fly away, and leave you with Bill. Oh, how I loved it. I barely understood most of the symbolism, because for the most part, I am aware of the deeper symbolism contained in works such as Bram Stoker's novel... and come to think of it, what the fuck kind of a name is "Bram"? Like, for reals? Sounds like a good name for a fag.
So I didn't know why it was made as it were, nor why it was so unbelievably hard to figure out how to play--for most people, they were playing it because it was The Next Hot Thing from the "creator of Magic"--bwahaha, yah right--and for most of those very same people, it was hard to figure out how to play, because it involved, number one, being able to read the instructions.
Imagine the smell of a gymnasium full of adolescents, all hunched over and squinting at the tiny type in the tiny rulebook that was included in each box of cards, panting and sweating as they struggled to comprehend some of the most intricate, fundamentally relevant elements of game theory--more like game law, amirite?--while being surrounded by mounds of cardboard boxes, some full and barely unwrapped, others half-emptied with their previous contents scattered around them within spindly-arms' reach, just in case some of the wandering loan cardsharks who plyed their trade, buying and sellling, might decide to just give up on the rules of polite society, and start grabbing up fistfuls of what were to be, inevitably, just semi-randomly tossed about onto the garbage piles that their lives were to inevitably become.
Now, as a master of Chess, as well as an innately gifted mastermind (Please clap.), I of course took to this whole scene like a duck to water. Oh, there's a rulebook? Cool, I read it twice on the bus to get there, and once again while taking a shit for good measure. Look, call me a phreak if you want, at least I know how to play to my strengths. And that strength, for Me, is the neurosphere, the battlefield of the mind--and truly, the mind is your only true weapon. Rawr.
You can stop clapping now, you cocksucking motherfucker--now that's shameless pandering, G-ddamn. Kudos. Anyhoo, the game, of course, tanked like an Abrams. Not only did it require an intense amount of preparation to even consider playing the game, in order to actually play it, what was typically required was about five people, say, three close friends who could act in public like they were perfect strangers, flawlessly, and two or more (please, moar) unallied strangers, who were actually strangers, who could be pushed about on a sociological level, because while most people who imagined "card game about vampires" had the seemingly reasonable expectation that the vampires would, like, suck blood. Turn into bats. Seduce women, preferably young women, by sinking their teeth into their necks and slinging them about the room like a warm, heavy water balloon filled with butterscotch pudding.
As one may imagine, the target audience for this game on its release, had about as much understanding of what it takes to seduce a real woman as they did as to what it takes to actually create actual butterscotch pudding. Like, for example... what the fuck is butterscotch? Is it butter? Is it scotch? What? It's neither? MY EMPIRE IS CRUMBLING! BLOCKED.
And most of them would still have better fortunes talking to a box of instant Jell-O, than they would have had talking to an actual girl with even an actual shred of actual interest. Me, as all of you well know, didn't much bother with that aspect... without my nares working properly, so as to instruct my royal European genome as to the proper amounts of oxygen, nitrogen, and midichlorians my meatsuit requires at any given moment, based on selected activity as well as length of time since the most recent release of hot particles into the atmosphere from the nearest nuclear fission reactor, there wasn't much chance of anything working out in public anyway. (Turns out, it's the nitrogen... too much for too long, a girl can make me squirt in my pants on demand. Not as a courtesy. On demand. Unless my bronchial tubes are properly instructed to reduce the temperature of their mucus linings by exactly... look, I'm not proud, okay? We all have our challenges in life to face. Mine just happen to be completely awesome and perplexingly, impossible to figure out until my dead grandfathers got together and agreed it was time. But don't worry about that now; I'm fixed.)
Getting back to reality: the name was "Jyhad", you dig? Like Jihad. Except with a Y. And do you know why? Well, probably not, shit, most of you have probably never heard of this fuckin' thing. But I bet you heard of Pokemon, eh? Well, you wouldn't have Pokemon without Jihad, an interesting quirk of history, its significance surely lost on the great lot of you reading this, except for Asuka, that is.
(I love Asuka Langley. It garrotes itself.)
And surely, most of you may well have noticed, that I spelled the name of the Japanese rip-off of Magic: The Gathering wrong. See, I forget the accent mark. This invalidates the brand. Chopper, sic balls. See? That's what balls look like when they're inside out. Love that neurosphere! And so, when Richard Garfield--buddy--told the legal team at the company he ostensibly created, game designer, corporate financier, sophisticated men's hair stylist, weaver and tailor of fine cloths, shit that guy is the real whole package, right? He told them, "Yeah, I was thinking of calling it 'Jihad.' You know, like the word that Islam uses to represent the war between... huh, that's funny, everyone in the room with a legal degree just instantly turned white as a sheet and fell over out, of their chars, onto the floor, where exactly 52.342% of them started to do this weird, kinda spasmodic... twitch. I wonder why? Is it my pits again? Fuck, I keep forgetting deodorant. I'm such an asshole."
Okay, maybe he didn't tell them all of that out loud. Or maybe he did. Who can say? I can neither confirm nor deny, so just shut the fuck up out there and LET ME FINISH. LET ME FINISH. DO ME THE COURTESY OF LETTING ME FINISH. Okay, thank you. Hey, do you have any lighter fluid? Thanks. I'll send a courier in the morning to pick it up--oh, right, it is morning there, isn't it? Wait, what time zone are you in? Are you sure? Okay. I'm going to finish now. *click*
So, the game was not really about vampires at all, was it? Just like this post, these paragraphs that I am writing, here & now, in My Mother's, The Lich basement bedroom. The one with the waterbed. It's nice. I got it from some guy who could not handle the truth about his life or his wife. I got his lamp, too. It's a nice lamp. And no, I've never rubbed his lamp. What do I look like, a complete idiot? Not any more, I don't, not since The New Administration finally came out of the closet. (Sup.)
The lamp--as well as The New Administration--really doesn't shed all that much light, but it looks pretty good while looking up at it while his wife fucks you, let me tell you. And really, Jyhad was a game that was designed to be played by couples, teams, and in general, adults who wanted to spend 3-5 hours together, playing a game, a card game, mind you, enjoying positive camaraderie and jolly good co-operation, while secretly scheming and perhaps--perhaps--even more secretly, embarassing the shit out of your husband as he desperately tried to seize victory by finally winning the game--Christ, he's been playing it for 3 hours already, what the fuck does it take to get to go have a beer and take a shit, maybe next week we'll just play Checkers--only to be carefully, manipulatively, some would say psychotically, sabotaged from behind the scenes by his wife, or one of his friends, or one of his lovers, or some
whore courtesan that he met 12 years ago, who comes around every once in awhile, seemingly just to say, "Cheerio!" but is actually there to be reminded... hey, I've got blackmail, on you, you bitch, and what's more, you need some more. You like more, don't you? Look, doesn't that look like a raisin? You love raisins.
Especially when accompanied by a warm tea with lemon chiffon pudding. Hi, Richard. Look, I'm going to assume you're actually reading what I'm writing to you while I'm writing it, because you're a brilliant mathematician and game designer, so you've figured out astral travel by now, right? You must have. Also, mind reading, so I don't have to tell you here, but I will for the cheap seats: I think you're pretty cool. Nice wife, too. Hey, do you happen to need a lamp? I'll trade you for that Scherezade. Just kidding, at least the lamp sheds at least a little light to fuck by. Now, if you were a Sourceror, I'd just give you the lamp, with my compliments--"nice socks," by way of example--but I happen to know you are not a Sourceror, and, do you know why? Well, for one thing, I haven't seen you attending any of the official ice cream socials--imagine the smell--but also, because you named your game Magic, instead of Magik. Or, Magick.
Or maybe you did, like maybe you wanted to call it that in the first place, but instead, some suit told you that it had to have five letters instead of six, because reasons, and you figured, hey, what the fuck, at this point, what difference could it possibly make? Sure, Magic instead of Magick, you fucking sell-out. And then, the same thing, Jyhad instead of Jihad? Well, that's a tougher call. I must admit, it did and look much cooler, much more
suave, with the Y instead of the I. Why? Eyeballs. Eeyor. Fukc if I know, honestly, rite? *BLAM BLAM BLAM* Haha, fuck you sniper, that shit was
bait.
You know, for some time now, I've been aware that each post I've been making on Bellgab--and this is Bellgab, make no mistake, what the fuck does this place look like to you, fuckin' Sparta?--might well be my last. For one thing, the snipers. Jesus, they're boiling out of the woodwork these days. Gettin' down right arrogant. Like, they just can't wrap their heads around this whole "bulletproof" thing. I can imagine why, but at some point, come on, there's gotta be a time when a sniper says, "I ain't taking aim at that target, that Hungarian nigger--I heard stories about him. I've heard that the only way to kill him, is to hang him, and the only way to hang him, is to hang him by his cock, and--his parents paid off a judge to make it unlawful for him to even have a rooster. That's sketchy, and ain't nobody gonna tell me any different. Hey, hand me a box of those thirty thirties. No, the blondes. No, the blondes, you fucking retard, if I wanted a blond, I would have said so, *BLAM BLAM BLAM*" See? You've heard the tail, and now you're getting most of an entire plate of crow.
Yeah, I just bet you have. Let's all play Pin The Tail On The Donkey and have a jolly good laugh about it. What is a dong key for, anyway? Why, it's for unlocking your dong, of course. Yeesh. Tough crowd, or dumb crowd? Tell you what, you tell me. I know I feel tolled. Hey, do any of you happen to know why I happen to have an entire Maker's Mark glass (plastic, sadly) stuffed full of crow feathers in my front yard? Well, it's because I don't respect eagles, that's why--nasty birds, truly. They're like buzzards without the common sense of politely waiting their turn. No wonder they were punished by God with DDT. Stupid birds, sitting on eggshells that can't even be walked on. How dumb can a bird be?
But, irrespective of how dumb this crowd might be... shit, you know, most of you who read this place, don't write here, you know? Maybe you don't know. Most people cannot write to save their lives, let alone--do math. However, everyone can shut the fuck up in order to write "no comment," that's for sure. How hard can that be, eh? You just put your lips together, and then never open them again. Super glue is reportedly somewhat helpful in this regard, although ultimately... not very. Anyway, most of you are smart--too smart, for my money. And yet, not quite smart enough to figure out quantum entanglement and its effect on time travel, teleportation, and the clock on a VCR. I bet most of you never learned how to do it, and probably couldn't do it today if Siri weren't there to do it for you, by your merest spoken verbal command.
What I'm getting at is, he wanted to call a card game, more complicated than Bridge, a game most well known for its tendency to bring about murder-suicide scenarios in married couples before Xanax was invented, by the word that Islam uses to earmark killing all the unbelievers in the world. Huh. You know, I'll be honest: I still don't fully get the joke. And I'm smart, you bastards. I know I am. A girl told me so once. Once. That was all it took for me to know.
Perhaps I would have gotten more of that joke and more of the jokes, if I had been married at the time--
*sigh* Angel--but I wasn't, and if I were, I wouldn't have given a single solitary fuck at a rolling doughtnut, I would have happily played whatever my wife enjoyed playing with me the most, no matter the game. I'm a Virgo. Pleasing people is what we do. Here, try this crowdpleaser... and say hello to Richard on the way out, the dude needs more friends. I am using the word "need" here.
Because he lost a shitload, I'm sure, when in the midst of the launch of the "Jyhad" game, suddenly, there was a bomb threat at the headquarters of the company that was publishing it. And, reportedly, this was not a bomb "threat." This was, I was told, with no lack of certitude on the part of the various tellers, an actual fucking surprise to the whole host of geeks and dorks who worked at this cubicle farm, down south of here about twenty miles, on a town known for its proximity and susceptibility to lahars.
Let me guess, Bellgab: most of you know what a "lahar" is. Right? So the company freaked out, collectively, and after dramatically over-producing an initial run of cards, which failed to sell through as hugely as had been hoped by most, suddenly, there's a bomb--IT'S A G-G-G-GHOS... oh, it's a bomb scare? Whatever, who--WAIT, AN ACTUAL BOMB? OH MY GOD. I THOUGHT THOSE WERE JUST A MYTH. IS IT A DIRTY BOMB? ARE THERE ANY NEEDLES NEARBY? WELL, YEAH: IT'S RENTON, OF COURSE THERE ARE. RUN! RUN! AIEEEEEE-clothesline.
No, "Clothesline" is too many letters. That won't fit on the backs of the cards--all with the previous name emblazoned across the back, in big-ass letters--so, how about just... like, cancelling the game entirely? Oh, no? Oh, right, we don't want to just fold under due to Islam, instead, they'll change it to... oh, fuck, you know what? I can't even remember what they changed the name to, given that this whole scandalous story--for the most part--fully slid under my radar, given that at the time, I was in my late teens, and in spite of the tremendous opportunities available to me at the time to entertain myself with... I really just liked to play games with friends, and so the socio-political realities surrounding the game didn't really interest me much at that age. And because the game was not popular to begin with, well, that meant, fewer people to play with. That meant, fewer girls to impress with my intellect, by being one of the few age-appropriate males around who actually knew the game's rules, could explain them effectively, didn't really expect to get fucked or blown in a transactional exchange, and still in possession of all my teeth.
Yeah. I'm a rare hunk of Earth, alright. So the name of the game were changed, sure, and they printed another whole boatload of cardboard to sell, and I believe that it still does sell to this day--but far, far fewer people play it, and they don't play it in public, oh no, they play it in quiet places, secluded and out-of-the-way joints, given that it takes a lot of concentration to figure out how to pretend that one is not really a vampire while playing a game about vampires, which are not really supposed to exist, of course, although if you ask the right people in the right countries, they'll tip you off to them, lickety-split.
Naturally, I was not invited to those kind of parties very often, or indeed, at all. And when I were, the inviter (some guy) would invariably assume that the invitee (Me.) would not be nearly so manipulative, masterful, or Machiavellian as I did not look, because, let's face it, don't I look like the biggest fuck motherfuckin' idiot in the world these days?
My, my, my. I just fuckin' bet I fuckin' do. Especially to some girl who knows all the rules to the Twilight board game by rote and can't tell that I couldn't tell that she was lying when she said that she needed help with her homework and that homework just so happened to be the Twilight board game--cool, must have been a substitute teacher this week, they don't know nuttin' 'bout no core curriculum and shit, here... let me help. I'll read the rules 5 times faster than you and then model four other personalities in parallel with my own--that way, not only shall the scales of karma be balanced, but there are some intricacies of fundamental game theory that I'd like to experiment with the implementation of various scenarios of.
I'm a Virgo. It's what I do. It's cool. Do you know what's cooler than cool? Well, here's a hint: it ain't Reese's Pieces, I'll tell you what. Now, can you imagine what I was like when I was a
Vincent virgin, though? God, I hope not.
I Truly Don'T.
low vibrating shit that you will be accountable for that is very actionable
Well, I ain't gonna start fibbin' now, so, I'll just lay it all out for you: These days, I could use a little axtion. *CAP* Now, give me your PIN. Unless your courtesan has it. Oh, does it not work that way, oh, really, is that so?
Then, teach... Tyrant.
