Sorry, I broke him. 
Oh yes.
Confession. Said to be good for the soul. It's better still for light comedy and convalescence in traction... but it's not real useful for keeping up the pretense that I have somehow managed to develop a seriously dysfunctional erectile condition.
Remember the "True Confessions" thread? That shit was flat-balls-out from the inspiration of The Divine. And, then what? No, it's fine, look, some people will believe everything, automagically, and the rest, they have to work at it so that they feel worth the illumination glee.
#JustPunyThoughts. "But if I confess... people won't just maybe find out... they really WILL find out!" Newsflash: nigga,
everybody already knows, remember that the average person is so got-damned dumb that half of ewe actually feel sorry for someone who simply picked up enough of their own sack to be willing to be wrong in public for once... and then, wasn't, but no one even noticed... oh, except for just that one person. Such shame. No admission. And so then as the whole population, the lightbulbs going on in their heads, but without collaboration, in the dark the amount of unlit bulbs eventually reaches a point that simply becomes an enablement machine, and nothing more. (And we passed that point, like at least four years ago or something. I'm sure things happened that seemed very important to many of you. Were they important enough to run it by Me? A trick question. Don't run things by Me. I'm not available. Unless I am. And, how should I know? I'm just a space placeholder and have been for, oh, let's see... what's half of seven years?
Mazel Tov!
Meanwhile, if it hadn't been for those meddling kids who stole the starter's pistol, no one would really have given a shit to take the time to notice... wait, who does this kind of thing? Seriously? Well, more power to them, seems like a disaster waiting for the right roll of the hundred-sided monkey dice. Oh, no snake eyes for a while, feeling confident, huh? *snap* PORTAL. Oh look, here it is, On The Rag? Nah, Rock. Who kept quiet, not out of a sense of decorum or decency or defense... but as a willing co-participant in God's comedic timing. Do you know the difference between a good joke and a bad joke? Keep thinking it over, because I just conquered another fifth of the payload genome around these parts.
Let me explain: someone flipped. Team Jack's Tar Baby, in fact, has run the bases and come out close enough to done, because let's face it, the bar has been set exceedingly low of late. Anyone wondering why? Probably shouldn't be, but if so, I'll lend a hand with a clue: that rubber band in Captain Lou's beard ain't just for show.
Here, I'll start: I'm not actually 'neutral' at all on certain issues. I'm simply numb from the emergency Vulcan mind meld that I... skipped out on.
Hard fuckin' pass. Other issues, no really, I'm totally neutral on. For example, letting it boil over, letting it fill the streets... in the end, they did, in fact, beg me to save them. And then, like one of those questgiver NPCs off in the X4-x7 level range of KingdomMUD's fifth expansion, off to the left of the garden path, some tired cubical guru just decided to save some time, and have all roads lead to Just Some Guy, You Know? For hours, maybe days, it's the most important destination evar, and then... oh, well, time to move on. Who? Was there something special going on there? Nah, just a bunch of fucked off shit.
All in one place. ALL. For, wait, how long? You're joking. For reals? Holy shit. Andy why? What do you mean, "cheating?" Being killed and using a modular script to rewind a timeloop and self-rez at A Most Convenient Place, Always may not be how your parents do it, how their parents did it, or how Larry King is still doing it down on Lane Six, but it doesn't matter any, not even a jot or a whiffle, if that's not even what I'm actually doing.
What is important that there is an actual activity, and that those who laboriously slog their way through the syntax, thought by parse by throughput and then on into, wait, what the fuck does that mean? R-E-M-E-M-B-E-R-T-O-C-O-N-S-U-L-T-A-B-I-G-D-I-C-T-I-O-N-A-R-Y, huh. Ovaltine for Christmas again, right?
Probably not. I'll be honest: this ended up so layered I stopped keeping personal track of what's feeding The Narrative, it might need a few more than 77 shopping days to Christmas before enough perspective has been gained to allow me to glimpse all the deep, cogent thoughts that went through here in the last five minutes. Is a cruise missile a plane? See, there's a use for that big dictionary we've been talking about.
Never forget.
So why and when does anyone need the Good Housekeeping Seal of Jaxstar Approval to post or piss whatever they wish?
Because there's a subtle thread of a narrative push that seeks to implicate and imply that I am in some position of power and/or authority and/or je n'connectiveness pas that would allow Forces Unnamed to blame me for whatever stupid shit that is wished to be eliminated. Honestly, I couldn't give a single solitary shit by now. This kind of thing has literally, actually, been plauging my life for thirty fucking years, and although the antagonists have certainly increased their sophistication over the years, especially with the advances that modern technology can provide, like a monkey with five asses so it can wear six kilts, each with 4-5 pockets so each can carry 7-9 cell phones, holy Jesus shit balls, put a ring on it, whoo-wee! now I'm a leader.
*authoritative rolleyes* (Hey, cool, I just wrote "tit." Sweet. I wonder what's on Lifetime or Hallmark Channel right now? *click*)
Not everyone has the time of day to bless this forum with all the prolific quality Our High Critic demands.
That's okay. I'll put in a call down to Parks & Wreck Dept., see if they can do something to the sundial's foundation... see if we can get you some more time. More of you is probably all anyone really needs.
You could go out and recruit some new blood
Important confidentiality agreements prohibit me from specifying just how many new bloods and crips I have personally been involved with in bringing to our beloved ginger step-child's second home. Nevertheless I believe I can say with confidence that it's enough for them to all go fuck themselves and have some leftover too. Hopefully, they brought enough cake with them to let them eat it for a couple few more days.
or pull some strings for the real Metron/GeNova/Daxl/whoever to bring back the magic.
The DVR Pull-Toy-String-Doll! Yank that fucking hank of yarn (100% All Natural Hemp-Like Fibre, Made in Georgia (frmr U.S.S.R.), pat. pend. as soon as the Usenet d/l finishes up, come on, come on download, LET ME FINISH) and the doll's fresh-shaved-lookin piehole, authentically situated DIE-wreckedly below the Matterhorn-like schonzzberg, which practically drips with scintillating, jewel-like-encrusted crystalline simulated-crystal jems will spit out (No, really. He spits.) comedy epic gold standard stand-bys ON COMMAND, noises that sound like words that form phrases that some of you will remember forever, like "in other words," "in a nutshell," "hang on let me finish ejaculating in this martini glass, HOLD ON PLEASE, LET ME FINISH, GOD!" and many, many more. (Playback currently embargoed in civil jurisdictions outside of The Greater Panhandler Economic Exclusion Zone--OTA update needed but another THIRTY K (KKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKKK, wow, that's a lot of Satanic energy, but it's in Kelvin, so... it must be positive) in seed money will be required to purchase enough seersucker fabric to cover the lasses' asses as well as that of every stray toady, flunky, and Klingon we've got around these parts. In the meantime, if one ever gets weary of hearing the same old bullshit blowback ferry tale stories about integrity, authenticity, and damn fine cups of cereal killer kaffir coffee, the limbs of The DVR Pull-Toy-String-Doll can be purchased in an articulated configuration, which, basically, for just a few dollars more (ANOTHER 30K MOTHERFUCKER), can be arranged to simulate the appearance of frenetic masturbation combined with a tasteful, yet dignified, double-flipping off of The Bird. (Hey brig: how's the view?)
Meanwhile, rest easy on that Golden Throne and keep the bumfodder handy for your own generous contributions.
Whoa. Deep.
Profound. Prolapse. Cheer up; you probably still have more money than me after I buy my next six-pack of Coke and whores.
Where this all leads I am Nautical Shore...
As soon as you get inside, I mean, right inside the door, make and lock eye contact with Colonel Hogan and punch him square in his smarmy American Aviator jaw. Go for broke. Bonus points if you let out the yell to pair with the crack-snap, but an also allowable finishing move is to do
The_Hogan right at the point of climax. Not yours--
his. This sauvely placates the ego.
