People predicting the demise of baseball seem to forget that there will always be new old people.
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When Pyjamas Media asked me to be a reporter on the war in Israel my immediate reaction was "yes." But my fool mouth has got me in trouble before, so I told them I would sleep on it.After some extra thinking I said "hell yes." You know why? Because one voice has been lacking in the midst of all this war. That is the voice of the average man.The elites in the world think they run everything, but if I learned one thing about global politics from my 17 years as an unlicensed plumber, it's that elites just mess everything up.Think about it. When was the last time you heard of an average guy messing up the economy? Or an average guy starting a war? Never happened. Only elites have the time to think about that stuff.Average guys just wanna look out for their family. They don't have time for starting a war.What would they even want to start a war about? Things are looking fine to me here in America. As long as you don't come for my guns or one red penny more of my hard-earned money or to make me join a union or get my plumber's license I got no gripe with you.So I boarded a jet to Israel to find out the real story of the war between Israel and Gaza. It was a long flight and they served chicken with something called rice pilaf. Very interesting stuff. I will have to see if we can get it back home.I got off the plane and my guide was a very nice guy named Moshe Ben-David. You pronounce it "moy-she." Moshe said that first he would take me to ground zero where the Gazans have been shooting rockets at Israel. Then he would drive us to a hill where I could see the fighting in Gaza."The attacks are frequent," Moshe said."How many people died?" I asked him."A lot of people over the many years it has been going on and recently one," Moshe said back.I nodded sadly to him."So it's sort of like your 9-11?" I asked him."Hmm," Moshe said as he thought about my question. "I think you could say that. Yes."(Image removed from quote.)Israelis struggle to recover from brutal Hamas rocket attacks.The tragedy of the attacks for people like Moshe is that they come so suddenly. No one expects the rockets. Imagine a 9-11, only the planes could land anywhere. They could land among the family of the Israelis."A siren sounds and you have one minute," Moshe said. "You have to get to the shelter or your basement."Moshe took me to a neighborhood not far from the border with Gaza and showed me some buildings that had been damaged by rockets. He pointed to a room where the rocket had blasted into the floor."A baby was sleeping only two rooms away and a few hours before this rocket hit. If he was still sleeping he could have been slightly injured by debris."Moshe showed me pictures. One picture was of a child who was dusty. Another picture was of a man making a very upset face."What happened here?" I asked and pointed to the face."Oh," Moshe said sadly. "He is upset because a rocket hit his yard."After the rocket attacks became too much to handle the Israelis were forced to act. With their airforce they used precision guided bombs to attack the rocket launchers. Some of these were situated in mosques and inside of the houses of families and at weddings and UN hospitals."The Hamas are monsters," Moshe said. "They use everyone as human shields. We have no choice. There are, unfortunately, some civilian casualties."(Image removed from quote.)Israel is really really careful about their bomb targetsNobody wants Gazan civilians being killed or injured, especially not the Israelis."We care so much," said Moshe. "We never want to hurt anyone, but we have to defend our settlements."The hundreds of women and children killed by Israeli air strikes, artillery, tanks, and machine guns are a tragedy."And the UN ambulance the tank shot," Moshe added to the list.These are all tragedies, but sometimes sacrifices have to be made in the name of security. If a serial killer grabs your wife and your baby and uses them as human shields you have to do what needs to be done.You have to use your brain in situations likes that. You have to shoot the baby because it can't take care of itself without a wife, but with a wife you can make a new baby."That's a good metaphor," Moshe complimented me.I smiled and we walked out to go to Moshe's truck. On the way out two kids and an older man with those little hats came running and said they were settlers."Like pioneers in America," Moshe told me.The one teenager was named Abraham and another was named Tzabar. They were brothers. Their mother had been wounded badly by a rocket."Shrapnel hit her in the foot," Tzabar said in a foreign accent. "She was sitting on the couch and BOOM the rocket hit outside and shrapnel hit mama in the foot!"They were very excited and upset. I asked them about their mother."She is okay now, but she is at the Marriott in Tel Aviv now."The older man was Sol Rozen. He lived near the boys and he saw another rocket hit a dog."One second it was standing there just fine," Sol described to us. "The next second there was no dog. I looked around and around and then I saw him up in the tree. He was okay, but he was very scared. He did not know how he got up in that tree. Damn them!"It was good to meet with the average Israelis I had requested. I shook their hands and wished them luck.Moshe drove his truck to a hill. From the hill we could see explosions in Gaza. There was smoke and helicopters. I could also see some tanks driving around."Watch there," Moshe said.He handed me some binoculars and pointed. I heard a jet overhead and then there was this big flash of light and then like a full second later there was this boom that shook my head."Wow!" I shouted. "That's a huge fireball!"There was a huge fireball forming. It looked like a mushroom cloud it was so big. It wasn't a nuke though, just a really big bomb.We had to go after a little bit because the tanks were driving into a school for the deaf and Moshe said he didn't want me to get stressed out."Come on, bro-heem," he said. "I'll buy you a slice of pie."He meant Sbarro pizza. They call pizza "pie" in Israel. We went to the Sbarro and I got a pepperoni pizza slice and Moshe got one with black olives.(Image removed from quote.)I took this one with my camera phone. Surprisingly, Sbarros in Israel look similar to those in malls in America.The pizza tastes just as delicious too!I wanted to talk to some average Gazans about what was going on, but Moshe said it was too dangerous."Maybe after all the rocket launchers have been destroyed," Moshe said. "Then it will be safe to go to Gaza."That is my report from Israel. Stay strong America.The End.
http://www.neogaf.com/forum/showthread.php?t=348621Synopsis:QuoteI've just beaten Fallout 3, completing almost all of the sidequests of the game...and what do i got? I've got and ending scene made by pictures, with a stupid voice that tells you exactly what you did during the game...NOTHING ELSE!!! No othere scenes...no other conversations nothing at all....[execpt for the credits -_-]So where the hell the story of this game is supposed to be? QuoteI mean i'm not saying this game is shit...the graphic is gorgeous, the gameplay is great, but if we look closely to the story, well...it's nothing more that a mediocre game...
I've just beaten Fallout 3, completing almost all of the sidequests of the game...and what do i got? I've got and ending scene made by pictures, with a stupid voice that tells you exactly what you did during the game...NOTHING ELSE!!! No othere scenes...no other conversations nothing at all....[execpt for the credits -_-]So where the hell the story of this game is supposed to be?
I mean i'm not saying this game is shit...the graphic is gorgeous, the gameplay is great, but if we look closely to the story, well...it's nothing more that a mediocre game...
To be in a position to affect foreign or economics policies--positively or negatively--you have to be a powerful member of government or a powerful lobbyist, in other words, an elite.
This thread is great http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3046168&userid=0&perpage=40&pagenumber=1(Image removed from quote.)
(Image removed from quote.)I, Gary, the Scourge of Carpathia, the Sorrow of Moldavia, command you! QuoteCommand me Lord. (Image removed from quote.)Find me a child that I might live again! QuoteA Child? (Image removed from quote.)A CHILD!
Command me Lord.
A Child?
Quote from: Kestastrophe on January 10, 2009, 11:52:34 AMThis thread is great http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3046168&userid=0&perpage=40&pagenumber=1(Image removed from quote.)Thank you for linking that, I'm fucking dying over here (Image removed from quote.)
http://www.neogaf.com/forum/showthread.php?t=348524achievements are cool now guyz
trophies are better than achievements because you need to manually rank them
hancock was good stfu
Crushed who are you on SA? CrushedB or something?
Quote from: Himuro on January 13, 2009, 10:40:42 AMCrushed who are you on SA? CrushedB or something? Yeah.
http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?threadid=3054632good question
I am about to post one of the greatest threads of all time. It starts with an article about drunk college Republicans complaining about guns and socialism, and then spirals into something wonderful.It starts with this post, and just keeps on going: http://forums.somethingawful.com/showthread.php?noseen=1&threadid=3052528&pagenumber=3#pti23
Isabella in Dead Rising: Chop till you Drop (Wii)spoiler (click to show/hide)[close]I guess they wanted to cater the Wii's target demographic
Isabella in Dead Rising (360)(Image removed from quote.)Isabella in Dead Rising: Chop till you Drop (Wii)spoiler (click to show/hide)[close]I guess they wanted to cater the Wii's target demographic
We found our Amy by the sea when she was but three, a wee lass with greenfloss hair shined like mossy glass. She was clinging to a mass of driftwood and suckling a barnacle; she screamed when we picked her up, depriving her of briny milk.We didn't know where she came from but we loved her like a daughter. When she fell and scraped her knee, crying for the first time we'd known her, her cries were long and slow and deep like the hunting whale's sojourn. We took her to a pediatrician, he said her throat was coiled in on itself like a seashell. He advised us to give her a children's motrin and a snailshell once a night for a week.The election was a week later. We were shocked when Obama won; we were afraid that our beautiful beachfront chalet would be seized and all the whelks and conchs chained to crude sledges, whipped by overseer crabs, force to haul pebbles and secrete a calcareous tenement where our happy household once stood. We were afraid of taxes, of terrorists, socialized medicine, the flag pulled down from over the white house and rolled into the biggest reefer ever, smoked by a cackling Bill Ayers in front of millions of children.None of this happened. Instead, something far worse: a gang of dolphins came to the door and demanded our child. "WEEEEE WENT OEEER AEEEEMY" they squealed. "GEEEV HEER TEE UESSS."We tried to stop them, we pleaded with them, but they held us down with their muscular flukes and dragged Amy from her room. The dolphins told her she could bring only one suitcase, and she filled it with air. Then the dolphins led her away. She cried her sonorous cries and the dolphins chittered an unintelligeable antistrophe, and that was last time we saw our Amy.When we went to the police, they told us they already knew everything, and there was nothing they could do. Obama himself had signed the authorization forms. Farewell Amy of the Sea, and curse the day the black man took thee from we.
WASILLA, AK - An medical entrepreneur was dragged out of her house yesterday and beaten by government thugs, whom we all fear. She had a small workshop in her room where she made goods and services for people who felt down. They felt good but the Obama people came in, knock knock, dragged her out by the hair, beat her with batons. Her husband could not defend her because he no longer had ten guns. He was only allowed one and so the jacked boots were able to beat his initiative."Mom always wanted to patent her technique with Draino and Tylenol," sobbed her son, Levi. "But when they got rid of intellectual property that became impossible. Now nobody wants to invent anything and there's no music I can download." A black tie funeral for the American Dream is being held Tuesday.
Heather quaked in her Uggs. "He's spending HOW MUCH on a stimulus plan?!" All those billions, for what? The so-called middle class? No. Heather didn't ace her marketing seminar for nothing; she could see right through that slick packaging. She could see that the Middle Class was an incipient gestapo, a force of praetorians loyal not to America but to Obama and no one else. She could see them now, the thugs, with black sunglasses and black suits, rappelling from black helicopters, holding the lines in their strong black hands like the gnarled roots of strangler figs twined around strange ruins in darkest Africa, which America was becoming. Heather saw a leopard shatter the window of the Cold Stone Creamery with a mighty paw, an elephant stamping her Audi again and again, grinding its fine polished carapace into a tin smear, a python oozing up from the sewers to devour helpless white babies, and Heather screamed.But the vanguard of fauna couldn't hear her. They listened only to the mesmeric music of the Middle Class, played on hideous huge boomboxes so unlike the little pink iPod Nano Heather sported on an armband. The geologic thud of titan tom-toms made Heather's guts itch, and the fusilade of raucous vocals, in some degenerate dialect or maybe not even American at all, made Heather clutch her purse even tighter than when the troop of lemurs had poured out of Urban Outfitters to leer and gibber and clutch.The Middle Class and its bestial allies made their way through the shopping center, despoiling every luxury good, making GBS threads in every smoothie, smearing inusperable filth over every surface. One of the Middle Class paused in front of a handsome white Lincoln Navigator and let down his fly, revealing a tremendous penis that pissed magenta and lime spray paint. He scrawled shocking profanities all over the pristine vehicle while hyenas licked up the backsplash, and when he was finished he laughed and his phallus grew even larger, and he began swinging it wildly, battering the poor SUV into a shapeless heap.Throughout this ordeal Heather stood transfixed, immobile, only able to watch and scream as the horde overturned American civilization and pulled from the stinking earth beneath it the Law of the Jungle. But now she stumbled, her legs suddenly working, her screams suddenly audible, and every rampaging eye turned to pierce her.An ostrich smiled, revealing two perfect rows of platinum teeth."Heather? Hey girl, you there?"Dylan's concerned face swum into view. The vision receded and Heather swallowed, feeling the pulse in her neck, faintly reminiscent of a pulsing beat playing while babboons shredded monogrammed towels in the Bed Bath & Beyond--no. Just your imagination. Heather emitted a wan smile."Ha, yeah Dylan. That Obama, he just scares me, you know?""Yeah, he's creepy. Did you hear who he appointed for the spy job? That Panetta guy?"In Heather's subconscious, a lion roared.
JAN 20, WASHINGTON DC- The inauguration was disrupted by the clicks and chatters of a thousand vermin, who poured out of the sewer and are no longer responding to hoses. The president continues to speak and suggests a world without a terrorist threat, but the mice inch closer whenever he stops speaking. We are afraid he will run out of things to say.
DENMARK- WHEN BARRACK OBAMA WALKS ACROSS A STREET THE LIGHTS GO OUT. HIS PRESENCE IN CARS MAKES THEM STOP. THEIR AXLES BREAK. WE CANNOT FILM HIM ANYMORE, HE BLINDS AND DEAFENS ALL OF MAN'S CREATIONS. WE FOLLOW THE TRAIL OF DECAYING PLASTICS, WHICH SHOULD HAVE LASTED FOREVER. WE KNOW THERE IS GAS AND SHIT POURING UP FROM THE GROUND BUT WE WANT TO KNOW WHERE HE IS GOING. WE WONDER IF HE WILL BREAK US TOO, WE HAVE SEEN BODIES WHICH HAVE ROTTED LIKE FRUIT IN A HOT SUN. LIGHT IS COLLECTING ON THE GROUND, IT HAS FORGOTTEN WHAT DRIVES IT.
Michael Pocelinko, 22. Twenty-two years of dumb thoughts buoyed by a filial geyser of cash. Michael Pocelinko was turning crafty now, though, riding that geyser to new heights, gazing at the arrayed countryside with greasy perspicacity.He already had three locked vaults in his basement compound, his Ark: One for pistols, nestled in woodchip terraria, with drip-bottles filled with bullets. One for shotguns, surrounded by a moat, languorously sunning themselves on artificial rocks beneath potted acacias. One for rifles, leaned in little cubicles, wearing little ties, drinking mugs of machine oil with clever slogans, "you don't have to be semiautomatic to work here, ~but it helps~!" All of them in pairs, so that they could be fruitful and multiply. But Michael knew he had to expand.The impenetrable future rose before Michael like a blazon of dark possibility. When the gun stores shuttered forever, when ownership was banned, when the last free men cast lead balls from Montana towers to resupply their pipe-muskets against the swarthy hordes, what next? America might fall, but surely pockets of resistance would persist, and surely the Feds would continue to seize and oppress what crude firearms remained, on and on unto infinity, until ATF cavemen had confiscated the last throwable rock on Earth's barren surface. Michael wasn't planning for the apocalypse, or the post-apocalypse. He was far beyond that.Fueled by the inexhorable power of daddy's wallet, Michael was buying every possible gun. Directed energy weapons were old hat--vault 4, superconducting barrels bubbling in liquid hydrogen with little plastic castles and flash-frozen goldfish. He had guns that shot spikes, stalagmites, icicles, popsicles, sickles, hypodermics that inflicted sickle-cell anemia. He had a gun made out of motorized dead butterflies that he bought from a crooked lepidopoterist in Sri Lanka, who claimed it would summon hurricanes to sunder the target with counterroating winds. He had a gun that shot an infinitely telescoping rod with a sensor that stopped it always a centimeter from any surface, in case the Feds moved in with commando toddlers that only needed to be frightened away. He had water guns, some with built-in heaters in case the feds attacked with golems made of tea. He had a gun that very slowly grew incompressable crystals out of its barrel, in case the Feds tried to crush him on a geologic timescale. He had a steampunk gatling gun that fired 3,000 leeches a second, and whose maker claimed it sucked blood faster than vampire John Henry. He had net guns and nettle guns and knitting needle guns. He had a howitzer that shot bazookas, which shot pistols, which shot miniature guns made of carbon nanotubes, which shot bullets so tiny they could pick the parasites off a gnat.In a high turret of his compound, Michael employed a crack team of five-year-olds to think up new possible guns. "This one shoots candy canes!" Michael found a dealer on the Archangelsk black market who was rumored to have ties with corrupt elves at the North Pole. He bought the gun."This is a dinosaur gun. It was made by a T-Rex and so the trigger is tiny, because he has a tiny arms. But the gun is HUGE!" Michael scoured the badlands of Utah and Colorado until one day a mute paleontologist with a harelip blindfolded him and led him to a secret grotto, right below the K-T boundary. There were ruins of a prehistoric city, massive and terrible. Sitting on a workbench was a gargantuan ray-gun wrought of pure iridium. Michael bought it."This one shoots ICKY BOOGERS. It has a tube to load them straight from your noseholes ehehehe!" In the post-post-post-post-post-post-apocalyptic future, who knew what the Feds would try to restrict? Michael had it custom-ordered.Day by day, the vaults of Michael's compound grew full to bursting with guns. He expanded them ever downwards, until vault 668817-AF-0Z2 penetrated the Mohorivicic discontinuity and he inadvertantly acquired the Gun of the Magma Men. Michael still wasn't satiated, and scoured the ends of the earth, daddy's credit card in one hand, a handful of golden trinkets in the other. He had to have them all. Every possible gun.On his 80th birthday, Michael wheezed at the top of the Thousand Stairs of Ngrydyl. The forgotten Plateau of Zynd stretched before him, where a lost sect of buddhists were rumored to have a mandala-making gun of great power. It captured sandgrains from the wind, stored them, colored them, and fired them with micron precision. Michael was gonna buy it.But the exertion had been too much. The strange man with pockets of gold was treated to the finest sky-burial, and the ravens considered his fat western meat a great delicacy.Meanwhile, in America, a man bought a hot dog.
EVERYTHING IS GOING TO PLAN -STOP- NEGROES FREE & IN HUNDRED YEARS CAN ACCOMPLISH STATED GOAL -STOP- MIDDLE NAME WILL BE CLUE TO BELIEVERS -STOP- LONG LIVE THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE AND THE PROPHET PBUH -STOP- AMERICA AND ITS BUFFALO WILL BE OURS -STOP-Found in coat pocket of delivery boy, murdered as he left office in New York
I tremble, the semiautomatic loose in my sweaty palm. It was the one firearm I still had, the others having been stolen by Those Who Came From The Sea. In the early years after the last presidential inaguration in the history of what was once the united states, the polar caps had started melting at an accelerated rate. All I remembered of those early times are the many meetings, summit after summit discussing this change that threatened to turn our fair planet into a watery grave, Barack's shark smile growing bigger and bigger with every one as he staunchly refused to compromise. Perhaps that should have been all the warning we needed, but at the time we were all too eager to cheer him on, heedless of the pollution that gave us riches but advanced the master plan that would eventually strip us of our country. Looking back, we were the artisans of our own downfall, foolishly ushering in this dark, dark era with our greed and collodial gold enemas.The news I get from the outside world is sparse, talking of texas being swallowed whole by the hungry tides and mexican pirates racing over what was once the Great Border Wall, their sleek, black-painted skiffs skirting over a seabed still literred with chainlink fence and cluster mines. I have heard tales of their great ferocity, of how they raid villages for the white women they need to make more of their kind. Once, in the early days after the great cataclysm, there were still steam-boats and daring captains to man them, keeping open the lines of communication between the settlements that still remained above the waterline. But those boats have long since stopped running, their captains having been dragged down into the Deep by the clawed monstrosities who now inhabit the seabed, holding court in the tattered halls of the capitol building, seaweed now hanging from the flagpoles that once hoisted the stars and stripes.But no news reach me now, as I sit alone and fish crabs from my small jetty on what was once the top of floor of the empire state building. Perhaps I am the last human alive, perhaps this Colt .45 is truly the one remaining american handgun in the world that has not yet been claimed by the deep-dwellers? Once there were others here, living as I did, but they have all ventured Below, never to come back. So many years have passed since I met another human, and my long beard is starting to gray around the edges.The call of the sea is strong today, the sloshing of the waves whispering "yes we can" sweetly into my ear. I look again at the pistol in my hand. No, I will not be allowed to kill myself. Soon, I will take the elevator down to the ground floor, and perhaps I too shall join the scaled court of Beel and H'laari, and feast and revel until the end of days...
From: David PlouffeTo: David ThorpeSubj: History in the makingMy pretties --Together, we've made history. On January 20th, history will be made again.For the first time since Abraham Lincoln was inaugurated in 1861, Barack Obama will be sworn in as President of the United States.This unprecedented event is expected to attract a record number of revelers and disciples, hangers-on, wayward youths, would-be-assassins and, most of all, you. You made this happen. You are responsible for this. Not Washington lobbyists. We will turn Washington lobbyists away at the door that we might make more room for you.Shamefully, Washington lobbyists are usually the very people who fund inauguration ceremonies. "Barack," I said to Barack Obama, "without lobbyists, how will we have a party?"And Barack said to me, "David, David Plouffe, listen to me: this barn would make a pretty good stage, and I can sing a little. Emmylou can paint backdrops on these old horse blankets. Doggone it, I think we can put on our own show."Barack was speaking in metaphors, except for the part about singing a little. He can sing a little, if four octaves is "a little." What he means is this: with our continuing support, we can fund this inaugural ceremony by ourselves, without letting those tumescent plutocrats darken our doorstep with their frictionless tuxedos and their blood money.To thank you for your continuing support, we're offering you a chance to attend this milestone in human progress -- personally. If you donate any amount of money to us -- any amount, but don't effing lowball us -- we will send you a ticket to attend this inauguration. What the hell, c'mere ya big idiot, give "Ungle" David Plouffe a goddamned big bear hug.Donate now for your once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to witness history.https://donate.barackobama.com/davidplouffebearhugThank you,David
