Thursday, July 17, 2008

Moments Of Restraint

I hate glaciers. Really, honestly, I do. First of all, they clearly should have an 'sh' in them, not this foreign glah-see-ay gibberish. But America-and-freedom-hating spelling habits are only the beginning of their suckiness. They're lazy as hell; all they do is sit there, crushing stuff, preventing cave man expansion, and being cold. They must know they're melting (and have been for kind of a while now) yet they do nothing about it, it's like they're expecting us to solve their problems for them. Well, let me just say this: "we remember the ice age, and it sucked, so look elsewhere for help, buddy". Oh, and I haven't even mentioned how they're hogging a ton of fresh water, and not even drinking it. And we know they've been a menace to their caretakers, the polar bears. Clearly it was stress that made their hair turn white.

But here's the worst part; they absolutely ruin the terrain they leave. How inconsiderate. Seriously, I'm SICK of hills. All I have is a bike and I'm absolutely SICK of biking up your godamned hills! Do you hear me? SICK of it. New England would be a great place to live if you hadn't rolled through here and all these fucking HILLS! Seriously, no matter where I go, there's this huge fucking hill in my way. Would it have killed you to flatten stuff out a little on your way out? Water makes stuff flat and smooth, so what the fuck is your problem? Godamned selfish chunks of ungrateful ice. And you know what? I ride a BIKE! It isn't producing an CO2 to melt you sorry asses and yet you choose to make my life HELL! Fuck you.

Sunday, July 13, 2008

Good Thing I Took Three Ranks In 'Jargon'

The scene is thus: I am Dr. Dominic Monague, a "rouge" anthropologist, thrown out of reputable circles because of my...unconventional theories about demonic influences in history. Desperate to be taken seriously, I descend into the criminal underworld, rob the Louvre, and sell my bounty on the black market for African conflict diamonds. With these, I can pay a rebel faction in the South American country of Guyana to lead me into a jungle to find an ancient, accursed temple that will (hopefully) prove my theories.

Here's the brilliant part: on the boat trip into the jungle there is, among the varied crew (which included a possessed house wife and rebel gun-runner), a reverend. He seems to be a normal enough guy, and soon becomes my closes friend, because everyone else thinks I'm insane. With so many other members of the crew with interesting stories, I assumed he was just there for color. Days later, he springs me from jail. This was highly suspicious, but I shrugged it off as simply a plot device to get me out of a sticky situation. The next session, the reverend (who had been an NPC controlled by the story teller) is replaced by a real person. The new player was a goofy guy more enamored with playing a gunslinger than a priest, so we all assumed he was just messing around when he put all his skill picks into fighting, not theology.

Now the real genius: after much struggle, we've finally made it to the rebel leader, Mad Dog. After securing final passage into the jungle, we quietly enjoy our breakfast as the reverend asks to speak alone with Mad Dog, allegedly about some information he has. Then, out of no where, he shoots the rebel commander, surrounded by guards. My first thought is "what the fuck?! You're going to get us all killed!". True story, we all died, game over.

But here's the kicker.

He was, from the very beginning, a government agent on a mission to kill Mad Dog. None of us, even out of character, saw this coming at all. It was absolutely flawless in its execution. As he packed up his notes and we crossed out health boxes, the storyteller smiled and said "well, that was a good end, don't you think?"

Yes, yes it was. I have never been so happy to have a character eaten alive by dogs, because this was epic. Epic with a "p".

Saturday, July 12, 2008

Speech Day

I don't often tell other people about my dreams, but in this case I feel the world must know.

It was sometime in the near future and the world was under the oppressive rule of a police state, bent on hunting the werewolves that apparently made up a significant portion of the population. In typical police state fashion, they also arrested a bunch of innocent people. Oddly enough, I think the punishment involved being turned into a werewolf. Also, I think prisoners were sent to an idyllic Scottish countryside. This is where I was at first, but somehow we (however "we" were) escaped and ended up in some random city (in this reality cities were just huge airport-like complexes full of frightened people and police). We were getting ice cream because, well, I don't know why. I wanted some bizarre and retarded flavor that involved real pieces of orange and, because I couldn't count money at all, ended up falling in love with the spunky (and slightly disturbed) ice-cream-girl, who told me we were in Zurich (even though she didn't know where that was) and gave me little paper squares with dots on them that suppressed my werewolfness when I ate them. Luckily, we were able to get by the guards and escape into a small lobby. We were trying to get back to Scotland (which now seems like a bad plan since it was full of werewolves) when I woke up.

I really miss her...

(also I never got my ice cream)

Thursday, July 10, 2008

You There! In The Red!

I'm tempted right now to gush about my ever increasing love for John Crichton, but I'm at work and probably shouldn't. Instead, I'm going to leave you with the empty promise of it happening some time in the future. ...and this.