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Project: GILBROD
Part V: Grand Conqueror

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There's a deleted scene on The Karate Kid DVD in which Mr. Miyagi eats the fly.

Really?

....no.

Oh, right, because he never caught the fly, Daniel-san did.  I bet that Mr. Miyagi really wanted it, though.  

Ai, Daniel-san, waste good meat.  Very foolish.

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Maya Angelou voiced her concerns today regarding the newly opened Martin Luther King, Jr. memorial in Washington, D.C.  Specifically she is troubled by the 'Stone of Hope' memorial centerpiece.  After scrupulous inspection, Maya determined that the 30-foot relief, supposed to be of the celebrated civil rights pioneer Martin Luther King, Jr., is, in fact, the likeness of a lesser known man: one Luther Martin Jones.  Luther Martin Jones entered the public consciousness in the late 1940s following his arrest for a series of unusually heinous rape-murders in the Atlanta, Georgia area.  Memorial officials have declined to comment on the potential oversight at this time.

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But you know, that old Greet Skutz wasn't right about everything.  He once told me it was safe to fuck a retard without a rubber because they can't get pregnant.  You ever seen a retard taking care of a baby?  How many retards you see dropping their kids off at school?  Does this sound like something that the Lord would see fit to allow?  I really believed him, but... well, you know how that one shook out.  He got me good on that one, ol' Greet did.  Got me real good.

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[ I like how in the Original Series, a Klingon is recognized for simply having dark hair and some manner of facial hair.  No other distinguishing features, barring their clothing, yet any Enterprise crewman will call out a Klingon immediately upon sight. ]

[ Have you seen the one yet where Sulu gets blitzed and pulls out the rapier? ]

[ Yes.  That's one of the first episodes in season one.  The behavior is caused by a contagious microorganism that eliminated inhibition in those infected.  Nimoy's performance, holy shit.  Spock is one of the last to get it, and his struggle to maintain composure is epic. ]

[ Picard's Enterprise encountered the same thing.  Everyone lost it, even Data, and that's when he nailed Tasha Yar.  Android pimpage, hydraulic unit. ]

[ Bones is mass doping again.  Last time it was tranquilizers, now stimulants.  Madness. ]

[ Bones.  I bet he got that name on the streets when he used to roll with the Royal Knights.  Yeah, nigga, they supplied all four corners.  The hard shit.  If you look closely at his arm, you can see the skull tattoo that represents street warfare. ]

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"Hey Franky, would you ever eat a person?"

"I dunno, Billy.  Why do you always ask me this question?"

"I'm just curious.  If you had to eat somebody or else you were gonna starve, would you do it?"

"It's hard to say.  I don't think I would know if I could or not until it actually came down to the moment of eating them, you know?"

"Yeah, I was thinking that too.  It's easy to say yeah, I'd eat a person, or no way, I could never do that.  But who really knows until they've got that person right there and it's like, you have to eat them now or you will die.  Do you think spices would make it easier?  Like if you cooked it up real nice like how Joe does his steaks, with all the sauces and everything?"

"I don't know, Billy.  I don't think you're supposed to enjoy eating the person."

"Yeah, you're probably right.  Still, if I had the option I'd definitely have Joe cook them."

"Well of course."

"And I'd have Joe make his potatoes and greens, you know the way he does it, I can't believe how good he cooks."

"If Joe was there and he had his potatoes and greens then why would you need to eat a person too?"

"Hmm, you're right, Franky.  I hadn't thought of that.  I guess I'm just saying if I had to eat a person, I'd want to have some of Joe's potatoes to go with it."

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I watched Rise of the Planet of the Apes last night.  Good movie.  Really entertaining.  I'd make my usual complaints about the cg, but in this instance I could easily overlook it because the story and characters were engaging.  Specifically the story and character of Caesar is what makes the movie work.  However, though this film was indeed quite good, it did have one colossal, baffling flaw: a complete lack of feces.  How can you make a movie about hyper-intelligent apes and not have feces in there?  The potential is limitless!  We see apes wielding various weapons, hurling manhole covers and parking meters, but was there any poo flung?  No.  Even before the climactic ape rebellion, there were opportunities for thrilling fecal content.  We get to see the young Caesar masterfully navigating his house, utilizing all the human accoutrements, yet do we see him taking a dump in a toilet?  Nope.  They left that scene out.  He was easily smart enough to crap in a toilet and wipe his ass afterwards too.  Audiences would have delighted at such a scene.  When it comes to the most crucial elements of a movie, Hollywood fails us yet again.

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[ Scotty in a drink-off with an alien!  Doohanial juice blast overflow! ]

[ It is... it is... it is GREEN. ]

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You see the latest news on ole Sandusky?  Goddamn, that dude is a fuckin' BOSS.  He would lord over a prepubescium.  The emperor always gives the thumbs DOWN.  

Beast mode.

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Namaste, fellow traveler.  The late Indian Summer is upon us, and that means that we shall soon set out for the Retreat.  It has, in just a short time, become the zenith of the year for most of us.  You've heard people talk of it, and what you have heard is true.  We travel to the Esalen Ranch and spend two full months living in a state of simple, natural bliss.  It is a nudist affair, no clothes whatsoever.  Yes, everyone expresses trepidation at first, but after a single day you will lose your learned self-consciousness and find beauty in your fellow seekers and revel in our wonderfully unique and imperfect bodies.  More importantly, all verbal language is strictly shunned.  We do not speak during the Retreat.  People may sing, and hum, and express joy, but we communicate primarily through gestures, glances, body language.  There is little that really needs to be said once one has escaped from the frantic ticking and rushing of our "civilized" existence.  The goal is of course to experience the gift of life at its purest and most primeval much as our ancestors did.  Oh, we do cheat a bit.  We bring plentiful food -- mostly nutritious fruits and berries -- as well as purified water, and warm tents with many amenities.  And there is a sealed building on the grounds of the ranch that contains emergency supplies, radios and the like, but in five years we've never had to turn to it or break our vows of silence to address some issue.  All goes well.  Perhaps some think it too soft and safe, but we do not seek a mad scramble for survival; we seek only full and undisturbed communion with the heart of Creation.  Many lament leaving their books and music behind -- i will hear people joke that they will go crazy without their copy of the Bhagavad-Gita or meditative recordings -- but in abandoning these artifices we hear the true music of the universe.  The low hum of the warm earth, the animal songs, the whisper of the winds in the leaves, these become omnipresent.  We inevitably create wordless hymns and chants, discover lost symbols, and read the hidden language that is found every rock, leaf, and drop of water.  Rituals spontaneously generate; sunrise and sundown become the spiritual poles of each day, and are attended with fervent adoration.  The cycle of sister Moon will be glimpsed and understood in all her glory.  Each year becomes unique in some way; one year, for instance, we gravitated towards the snow-fed river and spent many hours frolicking in the cool waters and playing in the soft mud like child-spirits.

And yes, there is always quite a bit of hanky-panky.  I know of more than one womyn who came to the Retreat in order to become with child without knowing the identity of the father.  Please do not think that entire affair is about sex, however.  It is just a natural expression of joy in our attempt to return to Eden.  In the context of the Retreat, sex loses any hint of shame and becomes, i believe, nothing less than the purest and most elemental form of prayer...

... oh, of course sometimes there are small conflicts.  Last year?  I... ah, so you heard about that.  It was most unfortunate.  A few of the larger men formed something of a clique and... monopolized the attention of the more attractive females, sometimes aggressively so.  Some of the other men grew resentful, and they ambushed the leader one night and cut open his throat with sharp stones.  His body did not survive and his soul returned to the Earth Mother.  I can assure you that these sorts of happenings are most uncommon, but not entirely unavoidable.  We are after all still primates.

And that is the reason why you will be asked to sign a binding legal waiver before your application to the Retreat can be finalized.

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[  What do you think of Chekhov? ]

[  He's cool.  Nuclear wessels! ]

[ Yeah, he's often a liability.  He's got skills, no doubt, but if i were Spock i'd neck-pinch that reckless Russian until his pants exploded with wodka-soaked shit. ]

[  Damn.  I guess that Russians are, with good cause, reviled universally and not just on earth.  Pavel bears the brunt of the guilt for his people's crimes. ]

[ Dude.  Chekhov gets tortured man times over the history of Star Trek.  Physical torture, psychological torture, he gets it all.  I mean, fuckin' hell, dude has some resilience.  Such trauma would render most minds disabled/highly dysfunctional.  Props, little dude.  Props. ]

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When i arrived at work tonight, i saw two people -- Ketsia, the cute girl with the Natalie Portman smile and sexy accent... and Stinky Simmons, the babbling old woman who looks like an Ewok with a haystack on its head.  Naturally, Ketsia departed and i spent a tedious night with the Ancient Thatch.

Shasta... HAS RETURNED.

We are both blessed.

The feasting has already begun.

Is it pungent?  Are those the piquant aromas of old Virginia goat chicory and Hermit's Garlic that you detect?

The very same.

Oh, delights.  Suggest to her a garnish of Jew's Head cabbage.  It really complements the richness of the bloody marrow leakings.  

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I don't attend church regularly, do you?  Maybe so, maybe not.  My purpose here is not to slight the faith of anyone, but to elucidate a personal conceit of mine.  If you do attend to your faith at a house of worship you might agree with me when i say that modern churches are rather like social clubs to which people flock for communication, camaraderie, connection, and continuity.  They want you to have a pleasant time or else you might take your business elsewhere.  But do you know what modern churches are not?  They are not temples, nor have they been for several centuries.  

Do you know what i consider the true temple of the modern age?  Why, the doctor's office, of course.  Think on it.  In my town, churches are small and out of the way, but there are shining-new, 12-story medical plazas springing up like magnificent obelisks in the prime acreage to the west.  You arrive at their whim and at their mercy; humbly you enter the cool and orderly waiting room, and proffer your insurance card, token of your status in society, and patiently wait to be attended.  There is no rowdy behavior, no haggling, no loud demands for faster service.  Nay, you silently await your name to be called by the receptionist, dutiful keeper of the temple doors.  After you are ushered inside you are then measured, judged, and perhaps found wanting by the nubile young nurses, priestesses they are, clad in their colorful garments which are simple and utilitarian but alluring to many eyes.  Confess your sins, mortal man -- have you gained weight or lost?  Do you drink or smoke?  Exercise much?  Even the dreadful sins of heavy drug use or visitations with prostitutes are safe to divulge, for the condescending eyes of your family and employers cannot see past the walls; it is all kept secret within the inviolate temple.  

And then, finally, you are seen by the Doctor, the High Priest of our secular realm.  His judgement is unquestionable; he proclaims you diseased or clean, and for most he will one day offer a forked path between life and death, salvation or damnation.  But the god he serves is not some tempestuous deity but the simple summation of all our knowledge.  Logic, rationality, only that which is known, he is the arbiter of pure, unvarnished Reality -- the only god that ever truly was.  And this god doesn't offer endless Sunday strolls in the park, mind you.  One goes to churches to hear the good news, but one enters the temple to hear the Truth.  Stand naked in the light, sinner, and hear the doom of the universe, absolute and unwavering.

And thus we see the function of the Priest -- to stand betwixt the naked supplicant and judgement of the divine; but while the pestilent mystics of the past could offer only prayers, the Doctor can do much more.  He can intercede on your behalf against the terrible weight of the cosmos.  With a mere flick of his pen he can heal infection, salve your wounds, vanquish pain.  To the pharmacy, mortal, where the balms of my kingdom shall be administered by lower hands.  Miracles in a bottle or tube, chemicals taken from plants and beasts and rocks, distilled in laboratories, a transubstantiation beyond my understanding turns the raw earth into wondrous blessings...

...that is how the temple works.  Glorious, is it not?  But one must always beware false prophets as no earthly system is without flaw.  I am, i admit, beginning to have certain reservations about this Doctor-Priest before me, this... Aggarwal Malpani, M.D.  He is a converted soul from the pagan Orient, perhaps?  Despite my grovelings and and prostrations, he... he refuses to bestow the blessing upon me.  There he stands, vengefully shutting the doors of Heaven, leaving me to fend for myself as the demons howl in the distance... come, on doc!  You fucking haji cocksucker!  Do you know what the hell is going to happen to me without my fucking Oxy?  Didn't you just hear me kiss your sandy ass for the last fifteen minutes?  What more do you want from me?  You want me to suck your dick or something?  Tickle your ass hole?  Because i'll do it.  I need the stuff, man.  I... i'll do anything just HOOK ME UP YOU FUCKING DURKA-DURKA CAMELFUCKER SHITHEAD, YOU!

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[ Kirk disguised as a Romulan?  This shit is fucking outrageous.  Season 3, man.... Season 3.  It's like a different show. ]

[ Shatner's fire and passion are too great for such a ruse.  How can they dim his spirit to make him appear as a cool and calculating Romulan?  It is not feasible.  Foolish to even try. ]

[ He is an elemental.  The Shatner.  Pure Will. ]

[ And this is the younger Shatner, the prime Shatner, the ideal Shatner, long before his body became somewhat bloated by the infinite energy within. ]

[ And yet, even at this young age, one can perceive the burgeoning bloat, the energies within stressing their corporeal container. ]

[ Indeed. ]

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The Republican takeover of the Kentucky government was nearly absolute by the end of 2012.  In the boisterous sessions of the new state congress's first hundred days, they easily passed many boilerplate conservative bills which included the usual tax cuts to heavy industry, drastic reductions in social spending, and the curtailment of civil rights for homosexuals.  It was in this climate that beloved 98-year old state senator Cornwin Kettlebone was finally able to pass his long-stalled piece of pet legislation, which requires "the immediate publick execution without trial of all charlatans, cozeners, swindlers, hornswogglers, and bamboozlers that attempt to hoodwink the common weal."  Although the Supreme Court is expected to eventually strike it down for overwhelming vagueness, at this time of this publication, a total of thirty-eight men and women have been put to death under the Kettlebone Statute.

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Imagine how much better Temple of Doom would have been if those giant tubs of water that get knocked over into the mines had been filled with Mola Ram's piss.

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Whenever i patronize a drive-thru window, i always wonder... has anyone ever just lobbed a grenade into one of those things?  Toss, kaboom, there you go.  I don't know, if you were a suicidal psychopath gone over the edge, that might be a cool way to bow out.  Just driving around town, whipping grenades into fast-food joints, until they finally box you in and gun you down.

Excellent idea.  

"Good afternoon, sir, two Big Macs and a large Coke?  That will be $5.75."

"Sure.  Hey, do you have change for a G?"

"A G?"

"Yep."

-toss-

How many drive-thrus do you think you could hit before word got out and every fast food place was on lockdown?  It might also be fun to throw tear gas into the first one or two.  They'd be the lucky people, the ones that only got gassed.  

"Why, at Wendy's down a short way, those folks weren't so lucky.  That's when he transitioned to frag grenades."

"He said it was the chili... that anybody involved with the chili had to be dealt with."

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I sometimes wonder what Folco Boffin and Fredegar "Fatty" Bolger did after Frodo and company departed from Buckland.  Most Tolkien scholars seem to think that they were just a couple of lazy fags who were gay for each other, but i like to think that they had their own secret quest to fulfill somewhere in the vast lands of Eriador before they too returned triumphantly to the beloved Shire.

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Most bees are like, "Dude, fuck honey.  I'm sick of it.  Shit never ends.  I'm quitting."  But they never do, because they know the Queen will have them hunted down and executed for dereliction.  

Damn straight.  The integrity of the hive is paramount.  Production delays, unacceptable.  We especially cannot tolerate these rogue Africanized bees and their violent dissent.  Always refusing to work and playing their loud, buzzing rap music... fuck them.

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You know how a lot of horror movies have that scene where a beautiful young woman is taking a shower, oblivious to the doom that approaches?  Why is it never a really old woman with thinning grey hair and saggy breasts and a large gunt that is taking her last shower?   Hollywood is dumb.  

I'm not sure, my friend, although i suspect that it may stem from the belief that most audience members -- most, not all -- would prefer that their nude starlets be youthful, as opposed to elderly.  But i think that Hollywood has bigger issues on its plate than a chronic gunt shortage.  For instance, have you seen this movie Mannequin that all the kids are talking about?  I have, and it's not very good.  In fact, i would say it has many serious problems.  The premise is ludicrous, the humor is forced and slapstick, and the acting is largely uninspired -- James Spader, in particular, is at his absolute worst here.  This film's faults are evident from the very first frame.  As it opens, we see Kim Cattrall playing the character of Ema Hasure, who is supposed to be an ancient Egyptian woman who seeks escape from her patriarchal society before time-traveling in an unexplained and highly dubious manner to the modern age.  With no disrespect intended to Miss Cattrall, a blonde American woman is hardly the best choice for such a role, and the director's choice to have her act in a sassy, Valley-Girl manner is baffling.  Let's just say that i was very "aware" that i was watching a current movie and not a genuine scene from Pharaonic Egypt.  The verisimilitude was extremely poor.

If this is the sort of product that Hollywood is determined to produce, i may go start to go elsewhere for my entertainment needs.

Like Bollywood?

Fucking Bollywood!  They make more movies than anybody, but none of them are exported to these shores because Indian people just have a fundamentally different vision of what looks and sounds cool.  We can't wrap our minds around it -- the excessive dance numbers with high-pitched vocals, the stout, hairy middle-aged action heroes... it's all too weird.

I wonder if they like our movies in India?  i assume they do since they shamelessly copy them.  They probably see The Dark Knight or Inception, and say "you know, Mandragheskar, i like these funny western movies... i mean, once you get past the wacky American elements, the core of the story is actually quite compelling.  If we could remake this movie, but adding the proper colorful costumes and dance numbers, why, you'd have something amazing!"

And thus they began work on Shiva Darknights, starring international film sensation Dunyat Ashawarya as Bitti "Bruce" Waryan, and Matagashgar Ramayana as the Laughing Joke Destroyer.  

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"Well, you know, I just don't give a shit."

"Really, you don't give a shit?"

"Yeah man, was I unclear?  I don't give a shit.  I don't care what they say.  I'm not giving a shit.  Not a single clump, nugget, malformed kernel, crusty flake or errant smear will be given.  It doesn't matter if they are microscopic.  No remnants of any kind will I give."

"Damn dude, you really don't give a shit."

"Sir, I do not."

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So last night, i worked with some guy from Serbia.  It was a nice change from that broken-toothed cavewoman i had the night before.  This Serbian, he seemed pretty cool... he even likes rap music, kind of like how i did before i wised up.  But at some point in our chit-chat, he began talking rather emphatically about the troubles that his people have endured in the last century.  He went on and on about the injustices visited upon the noble Serbs first by the Ottoman Turks and then later by the Albanians, occasionally asking "do you agree?" and "how can that be right?" and other questions that demanded that i nod and agree politely.  Of course, if i had been more honest, i'd have cut him off and said, "Look, Zarko... i'm going to come clean here.  When all that Kosovo crap was going down fifteen years ago, i was smoking up with the Council and not giving a shit.  All i remember is that the US's part in the drama was quick and brutal, and left Bill Clinton looking like a pimp.  (Hail Clin-Ton.)  You make it sound like the Serbs were innocent victims, but i bet if i brought an Albanian in here, he'd spin it the other way, ask me "how could the Serbs possibly do as such?" and i'd have to nod and agree with him.  I don't know the specifics and i'd be willing to bet that all sides were guilty of many things.  Who cares?  Chief Running Bear could bounce in here and accuse me of stealing his ancient land, and i'd have no good argument against that.  Yeah, we did take your land.  But i'm not moving now."

But of course i couldn't say any of that.  It would have disrupted our working relationship, which is scheduled to continue through tomorrow.  Also, truth be told, i'm terrified of Serbs.  All Slavics, really.  Like i said, i don't know the specifics, but these people seem to commit atrocities at the least provocation.  There was this one tense moment when i dropped a plastic spoon on the floor, and i thought that he was about to reach over and try and break my arm.  Serbs, man.
  
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"Oh Branson, children can be so cruel!"

"Glenda, what's the matter?  What has happened?"

"Sometimes I wish we hadn't named our daughter 'Vergyna.'  What were we thinking?  Now all the children at school are calling her "vagina" and she is very upset about it!"

"Yeah, well it was either 'Vergyna' or 'Cuntilla.'  Those were the only two viable options we could agree on."

"You're right Branson.  Oh thank you so much!  You always know exactly what to say!"

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Look, sir, i keep telling you, you guys have made a mistake.  You've got the wrong guy.  Ask anyone who lives here and they'll tell you... Mikey isn't smart enough to successfully wipe his ass, let alone plan a terrorist attack like that.  Sure, he was acting funny for the last few weeks, always hanging out alone in his room, but he did just lose his job.  He kept saying that he was "building the ultimate spank bank" and that i could "buy in."  I have no idea what that meant.  But hey, search his room, by all means.  All you're going to find in there is a damp mattress and those milk crates full of his clothes.  Oh, his notes?  You mean those fucking yellow post-its that he stuck everywhere?  Yeah, those are a real trove of valuable info.  We used to laugh at them, but i haven't looked at them in a while.  Come on, let's take a look at these, and you'll see what a thundering tard this guy is.  Okay, here's one, it says Olive Garden is Lameass..  See what i mean?  Here's another... Trees ain't shit.  I will tear it over.  And this one says Spider Wilson is a deadman!  No, i haven't the foggiest who Spider Wilson might be.  Here's we go... No filberts in perfect nut house.  Yeah, i agree.  Oh, and here's a good one... Doc Lindblooms buttbuddy blue Caddie 433-DYR.  Don't ask me.  Here's some more of his greatest hits.  Mel C hottezt spicegrl.  Hardcore budzz ask me how.  Milk water beer soup crackers TV dinner tuna fish Shef Boy Ardy.  I guess he meant Chef Boyardee?  Oh, here's my all-time favorite... Need:tonite: hot dirrty black coontang.  Tonite.

....do you see what i mean, sir?  A real dumb-ass.  What, that one over there?  Hmmm... actually, yeah, that one does kind of look like a pretty advanced schematic of... what is that?  Is that what he blew up?  Damn... i'm, uh, actually i'm just really impressed right now.  Huh... wow.  Yeah, take everything in his room, take it all.  I hope you guys catch him.  Wait, i have to go where now?  Tonight?  Man... come on.  Alright, alright, i'm going!  Fucking Mikey...

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[ Sargon is accelerating Kirk's metabolic rate into lethal range, unbeknownst to either!  I knew McCoy's reservations regarding the mind transference were justified!  He must discover the corrupted system before it is too late! ]

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I felt confused many times during my three months in Japan.  One such time was when i was waiting for a train and saw this really weird machine that was built into the wall.  Like a lot of things over there, it had bright flashing lights and made weird noises.  There was a large button, and underneath the button was a sign that read "Press button and you will receive good feelings in your body! (Nonsexual.)"  The people i was with kept urging me to press it, but i refused until they explained what the hell it was.  But they never did, they just kept giggling and saying "you must press!  Go on!  You must press it, hee hee!"  So i never pressed it.  But later, i'd lie awake at night, wondering what on earth that machine actually did.  So the last week i was there, i went back to the station and completely destroyed the thing with a baseball bat.  The funny thing is that several people saw me do it, and didn't seem surprised at all.  One old man even came up and clapped me on the back and said, "thank you, good, yes."  Japan is a really fucking strange place.

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The recent Penn State sexual abuse scandal has sparked an intense public discussion.  We are being asked to consider the ways in which this event affects the people involved.  They tell us to consider the impact this has had on the students of Penn State.  At first I thought, fuck them, they weren't raped, who gives a shit?  But then I thought further and realized that their identity is intimately bound to their school, and thus criticism of school officials feels like a personal attack.  So after analyzing the psychological vantage of the students, I have come to appreciate their suffering.  Then of course we are reminded by many of the abuse victims themselves.  It's the standard sentiment in these high-profile situations.  Brian Williams said it most succinctly during NBC Nightly News: "Don't forget that the real victims were the ones that were sodomized by that heinous fiend.  Imagine the torment they experienced as his gnarled, wart-infested member lustfully tore through their unsuspecting cavities."  And indeed, Brian Williams made a completely valid point.  However amid all the voices, one important perspective has been sadly absent.  No one has taken pause to consider how all this has affected the accused rapist, Gerald Arthur "Jerry" Sandusky.

For the sake of promoting a potent intellectual discourse, let's proceed under the assumption that Jerry is in fact a pedophile and has committed every crime he has been accused of.  Does his being a pedophile somehow invalidate his viewpoint?  What makes any person's perspective more meaningful than another's?  Think of how difficult it must be to live as a pedophile, especially a practicing pedophile.  Imagine how much work is required to keep your pedophilic enterprises secret.  If there's one thing we can say for certain about Jerry, it's that he has tremendous work ethic.  How many years has he been engaging in and covering up his pedophilia?  All the delicate post-sodomy conversations where he has used what must be tremendous powers of manipulation to keep his victims from immediately openly accusing him of rape?  And then consider how he feels now, his life work ruined.  Jerry had a grand dream, and for many years he lived that dream, he relished it.  It's more than most people can say for their lives, to have actually lived your dream for some time.  So yes, let us not fail to consider everyone's perspective.  For how can we value our own lives if we do not value everyone else's?

...I completely understand what you're saying, but you may in fact be jumping the gun a bit.  After all, Mr. Sandusky has claimed, several times, that he is not in fact a pedophile.  He merely "enjoys" the presence of children, as most people tend to do.  I think it's the people who don't enjoy children who are the ones to be suspicious of.  And the "rape" word that gets bandied about so carelessly these days -- let's look at the individual situation closely before trotting out that emotionally-charged term.  For instance, say that you are a coach and you challenge one of the boys to a peeing contest, and you see one another's penises.  That happens all the time, and most kids are totally cool with it.  And then, what if you agreed beforehand that the loser has to lie down on the locker room floor while the winner takes a dump on his chest?  Boys like to do gross things like that, and i resent this liberal feminist agenda to sissify our young men and turn them into timid, preening, feminized metrosexuals who are afraid of a little perfectly healthy boy-play.  Snips and snail and puppy-dog tails!  And then, when the boy is shitting on your chest, what if you get a boner?  It's not like you can help that.  The liberals like to say that sexual arousal is not a choice, so let's hold them to that.  And when you're in that state, well, one thing leads to another, as they say.  And even then, it's not really "rape" unless the boy clearly and succinctly says "no."  If they fail to make their wishes clear, Mr. Sandusky can't be held accountable.

There is also one largely beneficial aspect to pedophilia that rarely goes reported by the lamestream media -- children are, largely, free of sexually-transmitted diseases.  If one confines one's activity to only prepubescent boys, then one remains free of these debilitating diseases and the costs they inflict upon society.  Much more damage has been done by callous men visiting prostitutes and exposing themselves to the filthy and germ-ridden vaginal cavity.  

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I have many tasks to complete during the course of a day, but it is the raising of the flag that gives me the deepest and most abiding joy.  There is a certain protocol, certain standards that i demand of myself and the other employees.  The American flag must, of course, be kept in pristine condition and folded in the proper tricorne fashion.  With clean hands it must be unfurled slowly and with reverence, and attached to the line with care.  This should be completed no fewer than eighteen seconds before sunrise, so that when one raises the flag it reaches the apex of the flagpole just as the first beams of the sun strike it.  It is at that point that a singular tear rolls down my face and falls to the lawn, and during its gentle plummet it shall catch a golden ray, and will for a breathless instant refract the light within itself, until it is an orb of liquid beauty within which the infinite wonder of all existence may be seen.  Long do i gaze upon the droplet in reflective contemplation before it splashes against the earth.  From there a flower shall spring, and once it has matured, it will be transplanted lovingly to the memorial gardens where it will adorn the grave of a fallen soldier.  This is the way of America, my friends.

America.  

America.  


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What is it with bitches and popcorn?  I mean, i like popcorn okay.  It's fine, tastes good enough.  And i definitely understand the appeal of it when it's doused in butter and salt.  It's kind of an annoying hassle to eat, though, because you always get the kernel shell fragments stuck between your teeth.  But bitches, man, they LOVE the popcorn.  Every day they eat multiple bags.  MULTIPLE.  Is it an alien hormone thing?

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[ The Medusans -- a species that has achieved the highest known degree of intellectual sophistication in the galaxy, yet their physical form is so incomprehensibly, radically alien, that if a human but glimpses them he is rendered incurably insane.  An entertaining Season 3 episode.  Also features Scotty in his formal-wear kilt.  I wonder if he freeballs it. ]

[ Wait.  Do they ever show the Medusans?  I am confused as to what they look like.  And of course Scotty lets them swing free.  He's proper Scots. ]

[ The Medusan ambassador is being transported by the Enterprise.  He is kept in  a fairly small box.  The box has a lid that can be raised to reveal the trippy flashing lights within.  I don't think the lights are the Medusan, but rather they represent the effect of seeing the alien.  Vulcans can safely view the Medusan while wearing a red tinted visor.  But oh, without that visor, shit gets hairy fast. ]

[ Wow.  That is... what could they possibly look like?  Little walking dicks with ass holes at the tip?  With scampering little testicle feet?  That's the vibe i'm getting here. ]

[ Strange coincidence.  I too thought of some kind of penis creature, like a dense ball of thousands of swarming dicks, all lashing out, feeding on various energies and ejecting their waste matter in an endless barrage of chaotic, ethereal spurtage. ]

[  This is a sound theory.  Nothing else comes to mind, really. ]

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[ Shasta had not been smelling THAT bad in recent weeks.  It's all relative, of course, but generally her stench had been tolerable.  Today, the odor is back to pure vileness.  Why must she emit the revolting particles?  She eats the fetid meats.  It is not a wonder that her scent is repugnant.  And the real kicker is that Scooser is not here today.  Shasta had to compensate.  Shasta's stench this morning makes me want to vomit, no exaggeration.  Her Thanksgiving feasting must have been exceptionally exotic and consisted of stuffs rancid beyond comprehension.  Goat meat.  Have you ever had?  It's one of Shasta's specialties.  You know, she invited me to Thanksgiving dinner.  I declined.  These are truths.  When i imagine Shasta's goat meat, i see a blood hock with the white matted fur still attached.  Just a raw chunk hacked off a screaming goat and slapped on a plate, still warm.  Jurassic Park style.  With extra spices.  Shasta said that she was going to make her "goat dish."  I replied, "sendide biode to sector 4."  She did not understand the reference. ]

[ Well, it's a bit obscure... you might have instead chosen "it will come to pass that all the firstborn goats of each goaticus farm will be born with a second ass." ]

[ Yeah, she would have gotten that one.  Next time. ]

[ You know what Shasta's latest thing is?  Ice eating.  She takes a big ceramic mug to the kitchen, fills it with crushed ice, then spends the next 2+ hours eating it.  Slowly, slowly, crunching it away, slurping up the juices from the pulverized chunks.  It kind of makes me want to kick her in the head.  Damn pagophagia.  Maybe she has hookworms which are causing mineral deficiencies.  That would not surprise me in the slightest. ]

[ I think maybe I can no longer describe Scooser's odor.  Or rather it would be pointless to continue to describe it.  I can conjure up all the lyrical creams and molecular filth in my vocabulary, but it's pretty much been said at this point.  What I can talk about though are the feelings/thoughts the odor elicits in me.  It would make for decent study if not for the fact that I have to endure it to such a degree.  The odor makes me want to kill him.  It's not a "if I killed him then he would be gone and no longer here to distress me with the odor" although there's that.  But what I'm talking about is something more primal.  I imagine an encounter on an ancient plain, my ancestral self, upon perceiving this odor, would be overwhelmed by the desire to kill.  It's a purely animal thing.  Overwhelming, primal disgust.  I wonder if he perceives me similarly.  I'd find it odd if he didn't have some irrational feelings of contempt toward me. ]

[ That would be pretty funny if he had some kind of neurotic aversion to being smelled...  

Look at this motherfucker across from me... yeah, Glasses, i fucking see you... see you flaring those nostrils... what the hell, man, you getting a whiff?  Getting a good snootful?  Yeah, fucker, you get off on that shit.  Take it the fuck in.  Goddamnit, why can't you leave me alone?  I feel your fucking nostrils all over me, all over my skin.... arrgh, why can't this guy get transferred or something?  I'm tired of watching him wrinkle his goddamned snout in disgust!  Raaar!   ]

[ Goddamn, I'm surly today.  I hate my Cenobites more than usual.  Scooser with his horrendous fucking smell and Shasta with her awful smell too, and the relentless mastication, and when that's not happening she's whispering to herself, sometimes humming a disturbing, barely recognizable "melody."  The sounds she makes, they are like a horror film soundtrack.  Scooser stands up and says, "Oh boy, woo, I think I'm going to take a break for lunch."  Ok, so fucking what?  Just go do it, you smelly dung cluster.  Get the fuck out of here.  Take a long break.  Nobody is stopping you.  Nobody cares when or what the hell you do.  Problem with the lunch break thing is it gets him walking around and the activity heats up his stench molecules.  He comes back even fouler than before, and with a noticeable increase in gastric scoosery.  He is plagued by an invisible cloud of microscopic flies.  Billions swarm about his body, feasting on his putrid cells and shitting out a rank powder that drifts far from his body.  Some days i encounter a vital dilemma.  I cannot decide whose odor is more repulsive.  Shasta or Scooser.  Right now, Shasta easily has the lead (her being in post-ingestion of rancid spicy meats.)  However earlier today it was definitely Scooser stench dominating the atmosphere and commanding the bulk of my disgust.  

I thought i'd gone to the limits.  I hadn't.  The Cenobites gave me an experience beyond limits... pain and pleasure indivisible. ]

[ O angels, a non-Scoosday Tuesday!  What did i do to deserve such a blessing? ]

[ You have pleased the mighty Zedra, and great mercy he shows to the Devoted.  If it be his whim, that is. ]

[ Well, i have been offering him quite a few encrusted, obese, motorized cart slags for him to plant his seed in their jelly, if he doth desire. ]

[ Yes, the overripe and earthbound fruits are his greatest fancy.  My friend, i believe that you shall succeed where the unworthy Negroy failed. ]

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I'll never forget that late July afternoon four years ago when me and Grammy Bethie first ate human flesh.  It wasn't an emergency or something, like if we were starving in the wilderness and had no choice.  We were just curious, so we tried it.  I wish they sold it at the supermarket.  That would be so much easier!  But then i guess me and Grammy wouldn't have as much fun when i go out to visit.

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Excuse me, sir.  Would you care for a spritz of deer musk on your baked potato?  You would?  Oh, excellent, sir, excellent.  You won't regret this.  I'm certain that you'll find that the musk perfectly complements the flavor of the chives.  And here at Garbotzo's Shed we only use the finest musk glands harvested daily from our large stock of hand-raised deer.  Oh yes, sir, yes, you are about to experience an extraordinary sensory bouquet.  Relish it.

I shall, and thank you very much again. By the way, i notice that you have pickled giraffe's neck on the menu -- my favorite -- now, is that free-range or farm-raised giraffe?

Sir, i shouldn't tell you this, but since you are a cherished regular customer of the highest order, i will divulge a fact concerning our not strictly legal giraffe procurement.  All of our giraffes are captured from the wilds of Chad and transported here via a great exotic meats black market!  Worry not, though, all meats served in the shed are ensured disease-free through our supremely advanced in-house testing procedures!

Splendid!  Now, honey... i know that you had your heart set on some fried catfish whiskers as an appetizer, but could i persuade you to split a giraffe's neck with me instead?  They're fairly big, and i'm not sure that i could finish one all by my lonesome.

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Ladies and gentlemen of the Board, may i have your attention?  As you can see, i have chose to present next year's budget proposal through a series of human tableaux.  It is unorthodox, i admit, but i think it may prove enlightening.  Okay, places, people!

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You know what my problem is?  I'm too altruistic.  For example, today at the checkout line in the grocery store, an old man was in front of me.  He was very feeble.  Hunched over his shopping cart, he slowly shuffled forward when the line advanced.  I picked a booger from my nose and delicately placed it on his back.  Without a word i let him take my gift home.  And it was a most special gift indeed -- one of those types that is half dried and half large drippy glob.  I know i ought to keep some things for myself, to consider my own well-being, but i can't help it.  I am compelled to share.

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"Have at it, Hoss."

"What does that even mean?"

"Uh, it means that you've been granted permission to rape that horse."

"No way, man, it can't mean that."

"Fine.  I don't care.  I'm raping that horse."

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I punched him mightily so that my fist blasted through the anal flap and plunged deep into the greasy innards.  I grasped his jumbled organs with my frightfully strong hand, and with a single vicious wrench i tore out a massive cluster of shredded filth.  The crowd was jubilant.  Their cheers unabated deafened, and encouraged me so that i had no choice but to punch again into the ragged hole, to harvest more while he could still scream.

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[ Jim!  Where are you going to look?  In the whole galaxy, where are you going to look for Spock's brain?  How are you going to find it?

[ I'll find it. ]

[ Even if you do, i can't restore it.  I don't have the medical technique! ]

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-- August 17th, 1995.  

Residents in the small town of Sparta, Tennessee are still expressing shock and horror at the events that took place last week at White County High School.  Two students, Billy Waddell and Franky Sunderman -- both 13 years of age -- went on a brutal killing spree, the extent of which is still being uncovered.  According to reports, the two students entered their fifth period geometry class at approximately 1:45 PM and sealed the door to prevent escape.  They then subjected the 24 students within to nearly three hours of torment which culminated in the death of nearly all involved.  A single living eyewitness, a girl who played dead after being shot in the side, recounts the harrowing details of the ordeal.  "Franky came in and walked up to [teacher] Mrs. Urqheart, and just shot her in the head.  We started screaming, but they pointed the guns at us and told us to freeze.  One of the boys tried to rush them, but they shot him, too.  After that we were all backing up towards the rear of the room.  Billy told us that he was going to do things to us, and that Franky would kill anyone who tried to resist.  It was horrible."  

What followed was a harrowing ordeal of sadistic torture that was unthinkable in the normally peaceful school.  With Sunderman watching on, Waddell selected student after student, isolating them from the group.  He would then subject them to acts of violence, mutilation and sexual assault.  Due to the particularly cruel and humiliating  nature of the acts, as well as the ages of the victims, we respectfully refrain from detailing the full extent of the abuse.  When each student was driven into unconsciousness by the horrific treatment, they were executed by Waddell and Sunderman, who then moved on to a fresh victim.  True to their word, any student who resisted their advances in any way was immediately executed, most by Sunderman with single gunshots to the head.  Both Waddell and Sunderman were members of the local Youth Firearms League, and are described by their instructors as "crack shots."  When their rampage had concluded and with police officers on the verge of breaching the classroom, Waddell and Sunderman then took their own lives, each shooting themselves in the head.

Residents of Sparta who were familiar with Waddell and Sunderman say that they are unable to comprehend what drove the two seemingly normal boys to such lengths of depravity.  Both were described as "friendly" and "pretty normal" by their peers and teachers.  "They went to my church and were always very well-behaved" says local parishioner Edith Prigbourne, adding that "at times they seemed a bit cut off, and didn't talk to many kids besides themselves."  This sentiment was echoed by many other townspeople, who noted that the boys were "inseparable."  "It was always Billy and Franky, Franky and Billy" remembers teacher Odie Norwell, "they were always together, really.  They did all the same things and would talk about stuff that only they seemed to understand.  Lots of kids do that, have their own little cliques and code words and such."  Local parent Sam Cornminster agreed, saying "if you saw Billy, you'd see Franky."  He went on to say that the boys "sometimes spoke of weird things," but nothing that indicated that they were capable of such violence.  "One day, Billy asked me about how the Cherokees used to scalp people, and if i knew what tools they used," he said, "but i thought it was just cowboys and indians stuff, same as when i was their age."  Other locals remember the boys' fascinations more suspiciously.  Teacher Deborah Givens remembers them "talking about some really scary stuff.  They'd ask people if they had heard about a woman who ate teeth, or families that engaged in incest.  A lot of what they talked about seemed pretty far out, to be honest."

The parents of both Waddell and Sunderman have so far refused to be interviewed by anyone other than the police, and have shed no light on to what might have motivated their children to commit these acts.  Police spokesman Gerald Worley has said that more details will be released in the following weeks.  Until then, the residents of Sparta can only speculate what caused such unimaginable terror to erupt in such a small and tightly-knit community.

Although Waddell and Sunderman were first thought to have acted alone, police are now searching for a third boy, Stephen Gooch, and believe that he may have been connected in some way to the incident.

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The lesson to be learned from the life of Garth Brooks is that you must never underestimate fat people, even if they are balding and weird-looking as well.  128 million albums sold, my friend.  Do you feel slightly queasy?  Good.  That's reality for you.

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Okay, dude, before we get back to the chamber to fire it all up, we have to pick up some grubbage.  Taco Bell?  Sonic?  Oh, no, my friends, we're done with that shit.  You know my favorite place, the Shed?  They just opened a new late-night drive-thru window, and it's fucking dank beyond all belief.  They don't serve the whole menu, of course, just the quick stuff that you want when you're wasted.  You can get these orders of conch fritters with buttery ranch dipping sauce... it's insane how many they give you for just six bucks.  And they have these things called mush-cravers -- whole shiitake mushrooms filled with a mink organ meat melange and deep-fried in coconut oil.  Oh, and the breaded beaver tails! And the platypus egg drop soup!  And the brown sugar-glazed hog eyeballs stuffed with raisins!  Oh, god, i'm feemsing for that shit.  The only bad part is that you have to wait in line for about 45 minutes, even at three in the damn morning.  Last time, me and Wally waited for a freaking hour and pretty much drank the whole twelver in the car.  But it's worth it, man, it's so worth it.  When you sink your teeth into that first conch fritter and taste the salty juice explode in your mouth?  You will never even think of eating Taco Bell again.  Never fucking ever.
  
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If you ever have to flush a parakeet down the toilet, take my advice and kill the damn thing first.

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Okay, Pablo, we're going to try this one more time.  You're going to feel it, i'm going to make you feel it.  Listen, shut up!  I don't care what your name is, so long as we're sharing this cell, your name is Pablo until i fucking say otherwise, you got it?  Okay, its time...

Yo, yo!
Yo.
You bitch.  I hate your face.
I'll knock you down and kick
you in the fucking dick.
You're an ineffectual
homosexual
gayer than a Draco Malfoy fanboy
smearing topical cream on his hemorrhoids
and these droids?  
There are the ones you're looking for
but you'll never fit them through the door
unless you widen it.  
Why you hiding it?
Can't you criticize my plan without deriding it?
Do it for your mother's sake
she needs to get inside and stuff her fucking face with cake
because she's bigger than the bitch from Norbit
and Dom DeLuise
you can track that ass from orbit
if you please.
But i still love her.  
We come together
under the covers
like two butt cheeks,
but whenever we're together, i'm like,
dude
what reeks.
Relax, bitch!
I'm just feeding her the cockmeat sandwich
i'm not coming over there and drinking all your Duff
playing touch football too rough,
pissing in your Corn Flakes and
sucking all the orange dust
off your cheese puffs.
You know this is a gold mine
baby, it's like old times
remember when we sold dimes
off your porch
with Mr. Fantastic and the fucking Human Torch?
And as for Eddie Murphy
he knows what to do
with that butt-naked zebra bitch that he has
back at his pad
named Oomfoofoo.
He'll do the same thing i did to your mother
nine months before you first met your baby brother.

Shit against the bricks, just to see if it sticks
that's what you're throwing
floating along in your Cloud of Unknowing,
scary and wild, just a terrible child,
an unbearable orphan
running fast and loose on the flowing
of your own endorphins.

If you try to fly, you'll die
but you might just make it
if you stand in one place
flap your arms and fake it.
Seek your freedom!  
Like the lemmings headed for the cliff, do you see 'em?
Ignore the warnings of the bipolar
high rollers
and race past Vegas on a skateboard
attached to the back of a Porsche
with the pedal floored
and head north
past Carson City, Reno, into Idaho
and vanish into Challis National
...wait, why'd you go?
I dunno.  

Now there you go again, down into your hidey-hole
running from my flow which is fresher than the Ty-d-bol Man,
and sweeter than the liquid that you find inside a cola can
am i gonna have to mention Mola Ram
again before you feel this in your heart?
Can you appreciate that orange before you peel it all apart?
Your loyalty must not be thrown to vicious rogues
who seek the throne, just in vogue for the moment;
those who foment violence, faithless like a vile wench,
but will disappear the minute that you show fear,
leaving you cold and lost, naked, all alone here.
Nay, pledge your heart and soul to the royalty
the Born Lords, the wielders of the keen swords,
who guard the deep forests and the green swards
and they will teach you how to wield a blade and sword fight
even if they make you sleep inside the courtyard for a fortnight.
That's a wart, right?  
On your mother's left tit?
I'm sick of sifting through the civet cat shit
just to get the seasoned beans i need to make a cup of coffee,
so one last time, Draco, get the fuck up off me!


....whew.  There we are, Pablo.  That's all i got left in the tank.  I'll admit to you, now, that my life hasn't gone exactly the way i'd planned, but you make the best with what you got.  In fact, i just decided.... my stage name?  I'm going to lift it from that rap that i just laid on you, yeah, i'm going to call myself...... hey.... HEY!  What are you doing with that, Pablo?  Don't... hey, man, put that shit down.  I'm not playing with you, put it down.  Hey!  Hey, don't fucking come at me with that -- OW!  OWW!  FUCK!!!  HELP SOMEONE HELP ME GARRAGH GHJHAAA RARRFGHGG

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A new study shows that one in six cell phones in the UK is contaminated with fecal matter.

....good.  Let's try to get it up to one in three by 2014.

Well, that's the reasonable goal, yes, of course.  We'll embark on an epic smearing campaign.  I knew there was a good reason why i had been storing all my feces in plastic bins in the living room.

Yes!  And once that goal is reached, we can then move on to the Fetid Cheese Initiative, which will... oh, but i'm getting ahead of my self again.  I must be patient and focus on just the feces for now.

The Global FCI.  Soon.  

Transformation.

Evolution.

REVELATION.

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It was like a fire hose blasting out pink lemonade, except the lemonade was shit, and the fire hose was Shasta's sodden, spluttering butt canal.  The only sane option is to plug the outflow with your penis, in spite of the very real probability of bacterial contamination.  That's an option, certainly.  You could also do as i did, which is to get a big cup full of crushed ice, and hold it under the frothy stream until the steaming cauldron spills over the rim onto your quivering hands and you raise the chalice to your mouth and imbibe in triumph as the Grand Conqueror.

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In some future Earth, scholars will refer to the Gilbrodian Form in the way that contemporary scholars refer to Shakespearean.  

"Oh, I see your new work is written in iambic midrameter.  Very nicely done. Kelbark.  Your skills have advanced."  

"Yes, Verdibotch, but we owe all to the great Council of Gandalf that recorded their works so diligently.  What a dearth of literary culture there'd be had they not posted."  

"Indeed, Kelbark, indeed."
And again, the glory of Gilbrod is extended. Two minds in synthesis of creation, observing the turning of the world.

And yet there can be only one Grand Conqueror.
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:iconburkeonthesly:
burkeonthesly Featured By Owner Jan 14, 2012
That is certainly some kind of thing. It's really up there on the page.
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:iconcouncilofgandalf:
CouncilofGandalf Featured By Owner Jan 16, 2012
Very astute, my young friend. It is indeed.
Reply
:iconburkeonthesly:
burkeonthesly Featured By Owner Jan 17, 2012
There's a lot of pretty good comedy in there. Not all of it's my speed, but plenty got a laugh.
Reply
:iconcouncilofgandalf:
CouncilofGandalf Featured By Owner Jan 18, 2012
Excellent.
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