Lack of blogging over the last few days caused partly by persistant illness (hacking cough which makes me sound like something from a period piece BBC drama) and my completely successful attempt to blow up our new computer. Yes, it all started when I tried to install Intel's System Health program, a handy piece of software which lets you know processor temperature and fan speed etc - all of which are handy things to know.....it ended seconds later when our computer had the electronic equivalent of sudden, massive stem death and presented me - not with the blue screen of doom - but the black screen of fatality. Fuck knows what the Intel software did, the guy at Dell did know either and I'm not holding out much hope for the repair dude who comes tomorrow. Put it this way, if the software was a bullet and my computer was a head we're talking quiet 'pop' of silenced Heckler and Koch, sudden spray of red mist and head quickly jerking backwards, followed by twitching foot. Repair guy is bringing a new motherboard, thats all I care about.
Totally flunked a swedish exam today. Bah. I have so much swedish coming in my mouth (to paraphrase the scary German in League of Gentlemen) that the right words get totally mixed up...arrgh, it was all so much easier when I only knew how to say 'I am John' or 'My trousers are soiled, please direct me to the nearest outfitters'.
Listening: a strange medley of Front242, Ministry, Rob Zombie and Leila K.
Reading: More malazan stuff, don't ask.
Wishing: To stop coughing, start training again and writing about sausage bikes.
Tuesday, January 31, 2006
Friday, January 27, 2006
Greetings. Once again I ponder the purpose of this blog when I read other efforts from similarily ex-patted folk in Sweden who seem to be able to detect the slightest nuance of difference in Swedish culture and then write reams of guff on it. I can't. I'm sorry. But that won't stop me blitering on.
My mouth tastes like rancid steel after the Subway sub I devoured on the way to the Higher education information place....upshot is that the next intake for anything remotely interesting is next Jan, so I've got the rest of this year to get my Swedish knocked into shape....actually, probably not as long as there are various entrance exams to take before. Anyways.
The tale of the Eugent will shortly be updated and move across to seathingcity, assuming I can remember my password for that blog.....
Purchased: Firefly DVD (appearing at some point in the post), James Blunt CD (not for me, I hasten to add, but for 'her indoors').
My mouth tastes like rancid steel after the Subway sub I devoured on the way to the Higher education information place....upshot is that the next intake for anything remotely interesting is next Jan, so I've got the rest of this year to get my Swedish knocked into shape....actually, probably not as long as there are various entrance exams to take before. Anyways.
The tale of the Eugent will shortly be updated and move across to seathingcity, assuming I can remember my password for that blog.....
Purchased: Firefly DVD (appearing at some point in the post), James Blunt CD (not for me, I hasten to add, but for 'her indoors').
Thursday, January 19, 2006
Strangeways, not Eton
The Eugent ships boiled out of dark space and deposited themselves, like turds on a sheet of glass, in orbit around the planet. They coasted for a while from the momentum of their remergence back into reality before their plague engines flared back to unlife with sickly incandescence. Within the bowels of their monstrously bloated forms the galley slaves who had survived the transit across the howlingly insane depths of space began to tread on the vast fly wheels. There was no purpose in their mindless stepping. It simply made the Eugent laugh.
The ships soiled their way down to the planets upper atmosphere. Dark pieces of hull cladding glowed suddenly red as thin gases grazed the ship's underbellies. They shook like nervous beasts. They creaked. They groaned. And sometimes they giggled. Nervously.
Dreadshaft (Caster of the of the Imperial Load, Catcher of the Holy Sow's Milk, Last Holder of the Lost Chance) stared out across the enormity of the battle bridge, across the shaven host and the calculating spider collective, and through the darkened windows. His gaze was on the crescent edge of the planet, and the dark spots which were the other Eugent ships, busily disgorging the Bone Storm soldiers into the upper atmosphere.His great armoured bulk creaked ponderously and the space between his eyes and their protective shield filled suddenly with a dark brown liquid. There was a low percussive boom from within the stygian depths of his body, a flat squeak, and then a metal vent at the side of his armoured, barrel like torso fluttered open and closed. The shaven host and the calculating spider collective swung, as one, on their fracture inducing chairs, away from the seizure control pods, and gazed, slackly, at their commander. Their mouths hung open, released from the mandible control arrays where they had been clamped, tormenting the ship across space. Cloudy, infected drool gathered briefly on the floor before being swept away by midget zombie chimps.
"Gross crew, my chosen emissions selected - despite erectile dysfunction - to join us on this great quest. This...glorious celebration of ultra violence. This communication of pain." Dreadshaft paused, as a particularly thick globbet of liquid squirmed through his helm."We attack now" He squeaked. The vent clanked shut, followed by a series of clicking noises as internal pipework opened and closed. His battle chair began to slowly move downwards, like a sinking ship, down into the depths of the battle cruiser. The shaven host swung back to their workstations, gripping the mandible arrays in their muscular jaws. The calculating spider collection stood and quickly skipped out of the room.
In the upper atomosphere of the planet the Bone Storm Elite streaked downwards on their ItchyCrotch 500 attack bikes. The bikes enabled one rider, and a rear gunner, to sit astride their half living, sausage like bulk. The bikes were like a lump of twisted muscle, pierced with weopons and equipment, a single great ominous eye looking forward. An eye which was currently shut tight, as the pilot cajoled the bike down to the planet at supersonic speeds. Above the contstant percussion of sonic booms could be heard the scream of the bikes war cry.
"oh shit, oh shit, oh shit......mother, fucking hell... I hate this....aaarrrrrgggggghhhhhhhh"The bikes, the sky peppered with them like gravel in slushy snow, tore down through the sky. They left vivid brown organic streaks in their wake.
****
Down on the planets unsuspecting and rather dull surface, Julian Fishguard (Cretin Class Accountant Grade 2) bimbled his way through the concourses and plazas of Capital City. It was a warm fine day with a fresh wind blowing from the deep blue sky (which, had he been paying more attention, he would have seen was criss crossed with vivid brown streaks which carved their way across from the horizon). Julian was vaguely humanoid, an vat bred offshoot from original Terran Stock Version 3.5, inhabiting a world which had long since been forgotten by the Greater Galactic Continuum. There possibly had once been a purpose in populating a plant completely with genetically engineered humans whose only aim was to be lawyers or accountants but the reason had been lost in the mists of time (or in a filing cabinet somewhere). He entered the portico of his office block, shrugging off a slight splash of rain, nodding his head at the security guard (Insipid Class Lawyer, ungraded) who, has ever, barely registered his arrival. The guard sat, behind his mirror polished desk, in a large bulky wheelchair as he had lost his legs in the great Factoring and Tax conflict of '35. Rumour had it, in the canteen, that he had singly handly deducted a nest of pen wielding export specialists.
High above Julian, and his sweaty musings of shared flat tax and leverage with the busty consultant he shared his office with, a ancient metrological airship drifted through the azure sky. It had long since ceased its use as a scientific platform and now served as a high end restaurant for the wealthier populous of the planet. Its massive yellowed bulk dwarfed the gondola which hung beneath it, but even that was capable of housing some 500 people, their servants and assorted hangers-on, lackeys and boot lickers. For its long since disappeared scientific staff the attraction of the gondola had been the open-air balcony which circled its girth, enabling them to operate their sensitive sniffing experiments and complex rain dances. The wealthy mainly used it for drinks partys, and spitting on Capital City.
Blim Fladderstock (Senior Partner, insurgency class, retired) lounged drunkenly in the bridge of the gondola and cast a lazy drink fogged eye over the bank of controls which, in their indolent ignorance, most of the crew (and particularly the captain) had little clue as to their purpose.
"I say Captain" Said Blim, waving a ring encrusted hand vaguely in the direction of the half asleep bulk slouched in the chair opposite him.
"what does the flashing red light, with the words 'Collision Imminent' mean, just beside the screen with the words 'impending doom likely' and just down from the console which is trying to climb out of the window with a parachute strapped to its back?"
"Well, its probably not good" said the Captain blearily, the gust of air from the now open window blowing his party hat off and sending swirls of coloured tape around him.
"I think..." begain Blim, which as his last words were unfortunate, as they were certainly not true. The Sausage Bike, its bone storm rider barely holding on (they were called shock troops simply because that was the state they were predominantly in) burst through Blims chest, after punching through the gondola wall, screeching to a halt which threw its madly chattering rider into the lap of the Captain.
He looked down at the 1 metre long skeletal creature grinning up at him, its flash flensed skull adorned with largely uneccsesary flashing bionic implants.
"Definitely not good" he said, as it began to gnaw enthusiastically at his groin.
The Eugent ships boiled out of dark space and deposited themselves, like turds on a sheet of glass, in orbit around the planet. They coasted for a while from the momentum of their remergence back into reality before their plague engines flared back to unlife with sickly incandescence. Within the bowels of their monstrously bloated forms the galley slaves who had survived the transit across the howlingly insane depths of space began to tread on the vast fly wheels. There was no purpose in their mindless stepping. It simply made the Eugent laugh.
The ships soiled their way down to the planets upper atmosphere. Dark pieces of hull cladding glowed suddenly red as thin gases grazed the ship's underbellies. They shook like nervous beasts. They creaked. They groaned. And sometimes they giggled. Nervously.
Dreadshaft (Caster of the of the Imperial Load, Catcher of the Holy Sow's Milk, Last Holder of the Lost Chance) stared out across the enormity of the battle bridge, across the shaven host and the calculating spider collective, and through the darkened windows. His gaze was on the crescent edge of the planet, and the dark spots which were the other Eugent ships, busily disgorging the Bone Storm soldiers into the upper atmosphere.His great armoured bulk creaked ponderously and the space between his eyes and their protective shield filled suddenly with a dark brown liquid. There was a low percussive boom from within the stygian depths of his body, a flat squeak, and then a metal vent at the side of his armoured, barrel like torso fluttered open and closed. The shaven host and the calculating spider collective swung, as one, on their fracture inducing chairs, away from the seizure control pods, and gazed, slackly, at their commander. Their mouths hung open, released from the mandible control arrays where they had been clamped, tormenting the ship across space. Cloudy, infected drool gathered briefly on the floor before being swept away by midget zombie chimps.
"Gross crew, my chosen emissions selected - despite erectile dysfunction - to join us on this great quest. This...glorious celebration of ultra violence. This communication of pain." Dreadshaft paused, as a particularly thick globbet of liquid squirmed through his helm."We attack now" He squeaked. The vent clanked shut, followed by a series of clicking noises as internal pipework opened and closed. His battle chair began to slowly move downwards, like a sinking ship, down into the depths of the battle cruiser. The shaven host swung back to their workstations, gripping the mandible arrays in their muscular jaws. The calculating spider collection stood and quickly skipped out of the room.
In the upper atomosphere of the planet the Bone Storm Elite streaked downwards on their ItchyCrotch 500 attack bikes. The bikes enabled one rider, and a rear gunner, to sit astride their half living, sausage like bulk. The bikes were like a lump of twisted muscle, pierced with weopons and equipment, a single great ominous eye looking forward. An eye which was currently shut tight, as the pilot cajoled the bike down to the planet at supersonic speeds. Above the contstant percussion of sonic booms could be heard the scream of the bikes war cry.
"oh shit, oh shit, oh shit......mother, fucking hell... I hate this....aaarrrrrgggggghhhhhhhh"The bikes, the sky peppered with them like gravel in slushy snow, tore down through the sky. They left vivid brown organic streaks in their wake.
****
Down on the planets unsuspecting and rather dull surface, Julian Fishguard (Cretin Class Accountant Grade 2) bimbled his way through the concourses and plazas of Capital City. It was a warm fine day with a fresh wind blowing from the deep blue sky (which, had he been paying more attention, he would have seen was criss crossed with vivid brown streaks which carved their way across from the horizon). Julian was vaguely humanoid, an vat bred offshoot from original Terran Stock Version 3.5, inhabiting a world which had long since been forgotten by the Greater Galactic Continuum. There possibly had once been a purpose in populating a plant completely with genetically engineered humans whose only aim was to be lawyers or accountants but the reason had been lost in the mists of time (or in a filing cabinet somewhere). He entered the portico of his office block, shrugging off a slight splash of rain, nodding his head at the security guard (Insipid Class Lawyer, ungraded) who, has ever, barely registered his arrival. The guard sat, behind his mirror polished desk, in a large bulky wheelchair as he had lost his legs in the great Factoring and Tax conflict of '35. Rumour had it, in the canteen, that he had singly handly deducted a nest of pen wielding export specialists.
High above Julian, and his sweaty musings of shared flat tax and leverage with the busty consultant he shared his office with, a ancient metrological airship drifted through the azure sky. It had long since ceased its use as a scientific platform and now served as a high end restaurant for the wealthier populous of the planet. Its massive yellowed bulk dwarfed the gondola which hung beneath it, but even that was capable of housing some 500 people, their servants and assorted hangers-on, lackeys and boot lickers. For its long since disappeared scientific staff the attraction of the gondola had been the open-air balcony which circled its girth, enabling them to operate their sensitive sniffing experiments and complex rain dances. The wealthy mainly used it for drinks partys, and spitting on Capital City.
Blim Fladderstock (Senior Partner, insurgency class, retired) lounged drunkenly in the bridge of the gondola and cast a lazy drink fogged eye over the bank of controls which, in their indolent ignorance, most of the crew (and particularly the captain) had little clue as to their purpose.
"I say Captain" Said Blim, waving a ring encrusted hand vaguely in the direction of the half asleep bulk slouched in the chair opposite him.
"what does the flashing red light, with the words 'Collision Imminent' mean, just beside the screen with the words 'impending doom likely' and just down from the console which is trying to climb out of the window with a parachute strapped to its back?"
"Well, its probably not good" said the Captain blearily, the gust of air from the now open window blowing his party hat off and sending swirls of coloured tape around him.
"I think..." begain Blim, which as his last words were unfortunate, as they were certainly not true. The Sausage Bike, its bone storm rider barely holding on (they were called shock troops simply because that was the state they were predominantly in) burst through Blims chest, after punching through the gondola wall, screeching to a halt which threw its madly chattering rider into the lap of the Captain.
He looked down at the 1 metre long skeletal creature grinning up at him, its flash flensed skull adorned with largely uneccsesary flashing bionic implants.
"Definitely not good" he said, as it began to gnaw enthusiastically at his groin.
Tuesday, January 17, 2006
Sideways, possibly to the left
The Eugent ships boiled out of dark space and deposited themselves, like turds on a sheet of glass, in orbit around the planet. They coasted for a while from the momentum of their remergence back into reality before their plague engines flared back to unlife with sickly incandescence. Within the bowels of their monstrously bloated forms the galley slaves who had survived the transit across the howlingly insane depths of space began to tread on the vast fly wheels. There was no purpose in their mindless stepping. It simply made the Eugent laugh.
The ships soiled their way down to the planets upper atmosphere. Dark pieces of hull cladding glowed suddenly red as thin gases grazed the ship's underbellies. They shook like nervous beasts. They creaked. They groaned. And sometimes they giggled. Nervously. Dreadshaft (Caster of the of the Imperial Load, Catcher of the Holy Sow's Milk, Last Holder of the Lost Chance) stared out across the enormity of the battle bridge, across the shaven host and the calculating spider collective, and through the darkened windows. His gaze was on the crescent edge of the planet, and the dark spots which were the other Eugent ships, busily disgorging the Bone Storm soldiers into the upper atmosphere.
His great armoured bulk creaked ponderously and the space between his eyes and their protective shield filled suddenly with a dark brown liquid. There was a low percussive boom from within the stygian depths of his body, a flat squeak, and then a metal vent at the side of his armoured, barrel like torso fluttered open and closed. The shaven host and the calculating spider collective swung, as one, on their fracture inducing chairs, away from the seizure control pods, and gazed, slackly, at their commander. Their mouths hung open, released from the mandible control arrays where they had been clamped, tormenting the ship across space. Cloudy, infected drool gathered briefly on the floor before being swept away by midget zombie chimps.
"Gross crew, my chosen emissions selected - despite erectile dysfunction - to join us on this great quest. This...glorious celebration of ultra violence. This communication of pain." Dreadshaft paused, as a particularly thick globbet of liquid squirmed through his helm."We attack now" He squeaked. The vent clanked shut, followed by a series of clicking noises as internal pipework opened and closed. His battle chair began to slowly move downwards, like a sinking ship, down into the depths of the battle cruiser. The shaven host swung back to their workstations, gripping the mandible arrays in their muscular jaws. The calculating spider collection stood and quickly skipped out of the room.
In the upper atomosphere of the planet the Bone Storm Elite streaked downwards on their ItchyCrotch 500 attack bikes. The bikes enabled one rider, and a rear gunner, to sit astride their half living, sausage like bulk. The bikes were like a lump of twisted muscle, pierced with weopons and equipment, a single great ominous eye looking forward. An eye which was currently shut tight, as the pilot cajoled the bike down to the planet at supersonic speeds. Above the contstant percussion of sonic booms could be heard the scream of the bikes war cry.
"oh shit, oh shit, oh shit......mother, fucking hell... I hate this....aaarrrrrgggggghhhhhhhh"
The bikes, the sky peppered with them like gravel in slushy snow, tore down through the sky. They left vivid brown organic streaks in their wake.
****
Down on the planets unsuspecting and rather dull surface, Julian Fishguard (Cretin Class Accountant Grade 2) bimbled his way through the concourses and plazas of Capital City. It was a warm fine day with a fresh wind blowing from the deep blue sky (which, had he been paying more attention, he would have seen was criss crossed with vivid brown streaks which carved their way across from the horizon). Julian was vaguely humanoid, an vat bred offshoot from original Terran Stock Version 3.5, inhabiting a world which had long since been forgotten by the Greater Galactic Continuum. There possibly had once been a purpose in populating a plant completely with genetically engineered humans whose only aim was to be lawyers or accountants but the reason had been lost in the mists of time (or in a filing cabinet somewhere). He entered the portico of his office block, nodding his head at the security guard (Insipid Class Lawyer, ungraded) who, has ever, barely registered his arrival. The guard sat, behind his mirror polished desk, in a large bulky wheelchair as he had lost his legs in the great Factoring and Tax conflict of '35. Rumour had it, in the canteen, that he had singly handly deducted a nest of pen wielding export specialists.
The Eugent ships boiled out of dark space and deposited themselves, like turds on a sheet of glass, in orbit around the planet. They coasted for a while from the momentum of their remergence back into reality before their plague engines flared back to unlife with sickly incandescence. Within the bowels of their monstrously bloated forms the galley slaves who had survived the transit across the howlingly insane depths of space began to tread on the vast fly wheels. There was no purpose in their mindless stepping. It simply made the Eugent laugh.
The ships soiled their way down to the planets upper atmosphere. Dark pieces of hull cladding glowed suddenly red as thin gases grazed the ship's underbellies. They shook like nervous beasts. They creaked. They groaned. And sometimes they giggled. Nervously. Dreadshaft (Caster of the of the Imperial Load, Catcher of the Holy Sow's Milk, Last Holder of the Lost Chance) stared out across the enormity of the battle bridge, across the shaven host and the calculating spider collective, and through the darkened windows. His gaze was on the crescent edge of the planet, and the dark spots which were the other Eugent ships, busily disgorging the Bone Storm soldiers into the upper atmosphere.
His great armoured bulk creaked ponderously and the space between his eyes and their protective shield filled suddenly with a dark brown liquid. There was a low percussive boom from within the stygian depths of his body, a flat squeak, and then a metal vent at the side of his armoured, barrel like torso fluttered open and closed. The shaven host and the calculating spider collective swung, as one, on their fracture inducing chairs, away from the seizure control pods, and gazed, slackly, at their commander. Their mouths hung open, released from the mandible control arrays where they had been clamped, tormenting the ship across space. Cloudy, infected drool gathered briefly on the floor before being swept away by midget zombie chimps.
"Gross crew, my chosen emissions selected - despite erectile dysfunction - to join us on this great quest. This...glorious celebration of ultra violence. This communication of pain." Dreadshaft paused, as a particularly thick globbet of liquid squirmed through his helm."We attack now" He squeaked. The vent clanked shut, followed by a series of clicking noises as internal pipework opened and closed. His battle chair began to slowly move downwards, like a sinking ship, down into the depths of the battle cruiser. The shaven host swung back to their workstations, gripping the mandible arrays in their muscular jaws. The calculating spider collection stood and quickly skipped out of the room.
In the upper atomosphere of the planet the Bone Storm Elite streaked downwards on their ItchyCrotch 500 attack bikes. The bikes enabled one rider, and a rear gunner, to sit astride their half living, sausage like bulk. The bikes were like a lump of twisted muscle, pierced with weopons and equipment, a single great ominous eye looking forward. An eye which was currently shut tight, as the pilot cajoled the bike down to the planet at supersonic speeds. Above the contstant percussion of sonic booms could be heard the scream of the bikes war cry.
"oh shit, oh shit, oh shit......mother, fucking hell... I hate this....aaarrrrrgggggghhhhhhhh"
The bikes, the sky peppered with them like gravel in slushy snow, tore down through the sky. They left vivid brown organic streaks in their wake.
****
Down on the planets unsuspecting and rather dull surface, Julian Fishguard (Cretin Class Accountant Grade 2) bimbled his way through the concourses and plazas of Capital City. It was a warm fine day with a fresh wind blowing from the deep blue sky (which, had he been paying more attention, he would have seen was criss crossed with vivid brown streaks which carved their way across from the horizon). Julian was vaguely humanoid, an vat bred offshoot from original Terran Stock Version 3.5, inhabiting a world which had long since been forgotten by the Greater Galactic Continuum. There possibly had once been a purpose in populating a plant completely with genetically engineered humans whose only aim was to be lawyers or accountants but the reason had been lost in the mists of time (or in a filing cabinet somewhere). He entered the portico of his office block, nodding his head at the security guard (Insipid Class Lawyer, ungraded) who, has ever, barely registered his arrival. The guard sat, behind his mirror polished desk, in a large bulky wheelchair as he had lost his legs in the great Factoring and Tax conflict of '35. Rumour had it, in the canteen, that he had singly handly deducted a nest of pen wielding export specialists.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Some of the times Drunkest I can barely remember-
1. Atlanta, USA. 2003. Feb.
After a week of travelling around the states to drum up business for my old company, and some time spent in the CDC (cute, sharing a room with America's smallpox reserve)myself and my business colleague were treated (read bribed) to a stay in a reet post hotel in the centre of Atlanta (rather than out in the waste land of nail painting and doughnut shops which our motel was located in). Anyway, to congratulate ourselves on a week of work, and - if I remember correctly - have a belated Xmas do we embarked on, what turned out to be, a 12 hour drinking binge. The salient memories are a. Believing I was in Atlantis and explaining this to some bemused, and quite possibly scared American students b. drinking whisky from little medicine cups in a bar where the clientale were dangerously excited (one of whom believed I was a pro-golfer from Canada and would not take 'no' for an answer. I think he may have had doubts, however, when I started talking about backspin and forehand) c. A playful punch from a bouncer which almost broke my arm d. A steak as big as my head e. Christoper Walken (or at least, someone whose dad was mates with him. Apparently) f. Waking up, in my pajamas, in the hotel corridor, with no memory of where I was, who I was, realising I could not see properly (corridor on its side, head spinning, no glasses)and that I had just finished urinating on someones door. g. Choosing the hotel door next to the wet steaming one and knocking gently on it f. my logic worked (i.e. that I would not relieve myself on my own door)and my room mate (it was one of those suite/apartment things)watched, to his surprise, as I stumbled back into the room. h. A hangover which lasted 24 hours.
1. Atlanta, USA. 2003. Feb.
After a week of travelling around the states to drum up business for my old company, and some time spent in the CDC (cute, sharing a room with America's smallpox reserve)myself and my business colleague were treated (read bribed) to a stay in a reet post hotel in the centre of Atlanta (rather than out in the waste land of nail painting and doughnut shops which our motel was located in). Anyway, to congratulate ourselves on a week of work, and - if I remember correctly - have a belated Xmas do we embarked on, what turned out to be, a 12 hour drinking binge. The salient memories are a. Believing I was in Atlantis and explaining this to some bemused, and quite possibly scared American students b. drinking whisky from little medicine cups in a bar where the clientale were dangerously excited (one of whom believed I was a pro-golfer from Canada and would not take 'no' for an answer. I think he may have had doubts, however, when I started talking about backspin and forehand) c. A playful punch from a bouncer which almost broke my arm d. A steak as big as my head e. Christoper Walken (or at least, someone whose dad was mates with him. Apparently) f. Waking up, in my pajamas, in the hotel corridor, with no memory of where I was, who I was, realising I could not see properly (corridor on its side, head spinning, no glasses)and that I had just finished urinating on someones door. g. Choosing the hotel door next to the wet steaming one and knocking gently on it f. my logic worked (i.e. that I would not relieve myself on my own door)and my room mate (it was one of those suite/apartment things)watched, to his surprise, as I stumbled back into the room. h. A hangover which lasted 24 hours.
Updated....I make no apologies. Actually, before you read on, I've noticed that many of my neighbours still have their Xmas decorations up...after the hallowed, nay sacred date of saints day...I wonder what happens, do the three wise men come around and throw stones at your windows (or even duff you up? I understand that Melchior was a bit tasty in his day)......
Up, not down.
The Eugent ships boiled out of dark space and deposited themselves, like turds on a sheet of glass, in orbit around the planet. They coasted for a while from the momentum of their remergence back into reality before their plague engines flared back to unlife with sickly incandescence. Within the bowels of their monstrously bloated forms the galley slaves who had survived the transit across the howlingly insane depths of space began to tread on the vast fly wheels. There was no purpose in their mindless stepping. It simply made the Eugent laugh.
The ships soiled their way down to the planets upper atmosphere. Dark pieces of hull cladding glowed suddenly red as thin gases grazed the ship's underbellies. They shook like nervous beasts. They creaked. They groaned. And sometimes they giggled. Nervously.
Dreadshaft (Caster of the of the Imperial Load, Catcher of the Holy Sow's Milk, Last Holder of the Lost Chance) stared out across the enormity of the battle bridge, across the shaven host and the calculating spider collective, and through the darkened windows. His gaze was on the crescent edge of the planet, and the dark spots which were the other Eugent ships, busily disgorging the Bone Storm soldiers into the upper atmosphere. His great armoured bulk creaked ponderously and the space between his eyes and their protective shield filled suddenly with a dark brown liquid. There was a low percussive boom from within the stygian depths of his body, a flat squeak, and then a metal vent at the side of his armoured, barrel like torso fluttered open and closed. The shaven host and the calculating spider collective swung, as one, on their fracture inducing chairs, away from the seizure control pods, and gazed, slackly, at their commander. Their mouths hung open, released from the mandible control arrays where they had been clamped, tormenting the ship across space. Cloudy, infected drool gathered briefly on the floor before being swept away by midget zombie chimps.
"Gross crew, my chosen emissions selected - despite erectile dysfunction - to join us on this great quest. This...glorious celebration of ultra violence. This communication of pain." Dreadshaft paused, as a particularly thick globbet of liquid squirmed through his helm.
"We attack now" He squeaked. The vent clanked shut, followed by a series of clicking noises as internal pipework opened and closed. His battle chair began to slowly move downwards, like a sinking ship, down into the depths of the battle cruiser. The shaven host swung back to their workstations, gripping the mandible arrays in their muscular jaws. The calculating spider collection stood and quickly skipped out of the room.
In the upper atomosphere of the planet the Bone Storm Elite streaked downwards on their ItchyCrotch 500 attack bikes. The bikes enabled one rider, and a rear gunner, to sit astride their half living, sausage like bulk. The bikes were like a lump of twisted muscle, pierced with weopons and equipment, a single great ominous eye looking forward. An eye which was currently shut tight, as the pilot cojoled the bike down to the planet at supersonic speeds. Above the contstant percussion of sonic booms could be heard the scream of the bikes war cry.
"oh shit, oh shit, oh shit......mother, fucking hell... I hate this....aaarrrrrgggggghhhhhhhh"
The bikes, the sky peppered with them like gravel in slushy snow, tore down through the sky. They left vivid brown organic streaks in their wake.
Up, not down.
The Eugent ships boiled out of dark space and deposited themselves, like turds on a sheet of glass, in orbit around the planet. They coasted for a while from the momentum of their remergence back into reality before their plague engines flared back to unlife with sickly incandescence. Within the bowels of their monstrously bloated forms the galley slaves who had survived the transit across the howlingly insane depths of space began to tread on the vast fly wheels. There was no purpose in their mindless stepping. It simply made the Eugent laugh.
The ships soiled their way down to the planets upper atmosphere. Dark pieces of hull cladding glowed suddenly red as thin gases grazed the ship's underbellies. They shook like nervous beasts. They creaked. They groaned. And sometimes they giggled. Nervously.
Dreadshaft (Caster of the of the Imperial Load, Catcher of the Holy Sow's Milk, Last Holder of the Lost Chance) stared out across the enormity of the battle bridge, across the shaven host and the calculating spider collective, and through the darkened windows. His gaze was on the crescent edge of the planet, and the dark spots which were the other Eugent ships, busily disgorging the Bone Storm soldiers into the upper atmosphere. His great armoured bulk creaked ponderously and the space between his eyes and their protective shield filled suddenly with a dark brown liquid. There was a low percussive boom from within the stygian depths of his body, a flat squeak, and then a metal vent at the side of his armoured, barrel like torso fluttered open and closed. The shaven host and the calculating spider collective swung, as one, on their fracture inducing chairs, away from the seizure control pods, and gazed, slackly, at their commander. Their mouths hung open, released from the mandible control arrays where they had been clamped, tormenting the ship across space. Cloudy, infected drool gathered briefly on the floor before being swept away by midget zombie chimps.
"Gross crew, my chosen emissions selected - despite erectile dysfunction - to join us on this great quest. This...glorious celebration of ultra violence. This communication of pain." Dreadshaft paused, as a particularly thick globbet of liquid squirmed through his helm.
"We attack now" He squeaked. The vent clanked shut, followed by a series of clicking noises as internal pipework opened and closed. His battle chair began to slowly move downwards, like a sinking ship, down into the depths of the battle cruiser. The shaven host swung back to their workstations, gripping the mandible arrays in their muscular jaws. The calculating spider collection stood and quickly skipped out of the room.
In the upper atomosphere of the planet the Bone Storm Elite streaked downwards on their ItchyCrotch 500 attack bikes. The bikes enabled one rider, and a rear gunner, to sit astride their half living, sausage like bulk. The bikes were like a lump of twisted muscle, pierced with weopons and equipment, a single great ominous eye looking forward. An eye which was currently shut tight, as the pilot cojoled the bike down to the planet at supersonic speeds. Above the contstant percussion of sonic booms could be heard the scream of the bikes war cry.
"oh shit, oh shit, oh shit......mother, fucking hell... I hate this....aaarrrrrgggggghhhhhhhh"
The bikes, the sky peppered with them like gravel in slushy snow, tore down through the sky. They left vivid brown organic streaks in their wake.
Monday, January 09, 2006
The Eugent ships boiled out of dark space and deposited themselves, like turds on a sheet of glass, in orbit around the planet. They coasted for a while from the momentum of their remergence back into reality before their plague engines flared back to unlife with sickly incandescence. Within the bowels of their monstrously bloated forms the galley slaves who had survived the transit across the howlingly insane depths of space began to tread on the vast fly wheels. There was no purpose in their mindless stepping. It simply made the Eugent laugh.
The ships soiled their way down to the planets upper atmosphere. Dark pieces of hull cladding glowed suddenly red as thin gases grazed the ship's underbellies. They shook like nervous beasts. They creaked. They groaned. And sometimes they giggled. Nervously.
Dreadshaft (Caster of the of the Imperial Load, Catcher of the Holy Sow's Milk, Last Holder of the Lost Chance) stared out across the enormity of the battle bridge, across the shaven host and the calculating spider collective, and through the darkened windows. His gaze was on the crescent edge of the planet, and the dark spots which were the other Eugent ships, busily disgorging the Bone Storm soldiers into the upper atmosphere. His great armoured bulk creaked ponderously and the space between his eyes and their protective shield filled suddenly with a dark brown liquid. There was a low percussive boom from within the stygian depths of his body, a flat squeak, and then a metal vent at the side of his armoured, barrel like torso fluttered open and closed. The shaven host and the calculating spider collective swung, as one, on their fracture inducing chairs, away from the seizure control pods, and gazed, slackly, at their commander. Their mouths hung open, released from the mandible control arrays where they had been clamped, tormenting the ship across space. Cloudy, infected drool gathered briefly on the floor before being swept away by midget zombie chimps.
The ships soiled their way down to the planets upper atmosphere. Dark pieces of hull cladding glowed suddenly red as thin gases grazed the ship's underbellies. They shook like nervous beasts. They creaked. They groaned. And sometimes they giggled. Nervously.
Dreadshaft (Caster of the of the Imperial Load, Catcher of the Holy Sow's Milk, Last Holder of the Lost Chance) stared out across the enormity of the battle bridge, across the shaven host and the calculating spider collective, and through the darkened windows. His gaze was on the crescent edge of the planet, and the dark spots which were the other Eugent ships, busily disgorging the Bone Storm soldiers into the upper atmosphere. His great armoured bulk creaked ponderously and the space between his eyes and their protective shield filled suddenly with a dark brown liquid. There was a low percussive boom from within the stygian depths of his body, a flat squeak, and then a metal vent at the side of his armoured, barrel like torso fluttered open and closed. The shaven host and the calculating spider collective swung, as one, on their fracture inducing chairs, away from the seizure control pods, and gazed, slackly, at their commander. Their mouths hung open, released from the mandible control arrays where they had been clamped, tormenting the ship across space. Cloudy, infected drool gathered briefly on the floor before being swept away by midget zombie chimps.
Sunday, January 08, 2006
New Year, New Game. And this one's called TWAT spotting...as in The War Against Terror....clearly someone in the halls of power is aware of this acronym (which is so fucking appropriate) as you often see the 'the' dropped off it or referred to as the 'War on Terror'....anyway, heres some examples from the web....
"The 3rd question has to do with the title, TWATism" Noam Chomsky.
"In his forthcoming book, TWAT, Bobbit reflects on a new definition of warfare"
University Texas Austion
"some have argued that confronting the treat from Iraq could detract from TWAT"
"they're building a nation fully joined in TWAT"
President Whorebeast
...perhaps it was funnier in my head at 0530 this morning, never mind.
On a more serious note, and staying with Iraq, how come noone gets upset about the Downing Street Memo anymore. Just in case you've forgotten, this is the one where Blair was told that the US was cooking the evidence for WMDs. This still amazes me....the enormity of the lie is incredible. Heres a final factoid before I bugger off, the cost of the war to the US has been 204.4 billion dollars - thats a lot of money.
Reading: Midnight Tides by Steven Erikson (Again, its one of the Malazan Book of the Fallen - lots of hacking and slaying, but rather witty with it)
"The 3rd question has to do with the title, TWATism" Noam Chomsky.
"In his forthcoming book, TWAT, Bobbit reflects on a new definition of warfare"
University Texas Austion
"some have argued that confronting the treat from Iraq could detract from TWAT"
"they're building a nation fully joined in TWAT"
President Whorebeast
...perhaps it was funnier in my head at 0530 this morning, never mind.
On a more serious note, and staying with Iraq, how come noone gets upset about the Downing Street Memo anymore. Just in case you've forgotten, this is the one where Blair was told that the US was cooking the evidence for WMDs. This still amazes me....the enormity of the lie is incredible. Heres a final factoid before I bugger off, the cost of the war to the US has been 204.4 billion dollars - thats a lot of money.
Reading: Midnight Tides by Steven Erikson (Again, its one of the Malazan Book of the Fallen - lots of hacking and slaying, but rather witty with it)
