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Topics - Dimocritus

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1
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / WTF
« on: December 24, 2011, 04:40:00 pm »
For the record, the second time was an accident.











#occupy my fucking screen name

2
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / WTF
« on: December 24, 2011, 04:38:50 pm »
It's occurred to me, there isn't much you can do to stop me from doing this according to the forum rules, so, get fucking used to it.

These fucking tyrannical douche-nozzles stole my rights! We all deserve to be able to change our screen names (especially when I only want to change it back to what it was.)

#occupy my fucking screen name.

3
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / WTF
« on: December 24, 2011, 04:35:28 pm »
Third time's a charm...

If you don't let me change my name back to dimo, I will leave and never return, OR, I will stay forever and never let you forget I exist, whichever is worse...

4
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / WTF
« on: December 24, 2011, 04:28:57 pm »
Why can't I change me name? I thought it was the computer I was on that wouldn't let me somehow, but it's not letting me on this computer, either. I would like to just be regular old dimo again, but fuck...

Oh, yeah, and something something something, chaos, something something discord, something, yada yada, nice to be back, and so on.

5
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / WTF
« on: December 24, 2011, 04:27:50 pm »
Why can't I change me name? I thought it was the computer I was on that wouldn't let me somehow, but it's not letting me on this computer, either. I would like to just be regular old dimo again, but fuck...

Oh, yeah, and something something something, chaos, something something discord, something, yada yada.

6
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Help a Brother Out
« on: November 08, 2011, 03:03:00 pm »
Got into a huge argument with my original bass player about the dangers of advertising, especially in regards to kids. He refuted my claim that advertising (or, as it is in America, blatant psychological manipulation and abuse) can be harmful by falling into a straw man argument, in which he called into question my authority on the subject (because I am not an authority, all my arguments are invalid). Not only did he continue to defend immoral and outright dangerous advertising techniques (despite the fact that he has a young daughter, the most susceptible target of said ad practices), he also was incapable of understanding that calling my character into question was not a logically viable means of argument, leading to invalid counterpoints in regards to my original premises.

I have just printed up a packet for him, including guidlines to a logically cogent method of argumentation, as well as a definition of "fallacy" and a description of a straw man fallacy in particular, as well as a few articles from science weekly that help illustrate my position, but not as well as I would like. Does anyone have links to good, preferably pier-reviewed, articles that can help bolster my argument?   


7
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / I'm...
« on: November 04, 2011, 03:35:44 pm »
 ...ask me anything.

Just don't be prepared for anything meaningful.

8
Or Kill Me / lost
« on: October 26, 2011, 01:57:54 am »
send help

9
1: Cook one pound of bacon.

2: Eat one pound of bacon.

3: Reflect.

10
The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / Hello
« on: September 19, 2011, 11:24:50 pm »
I'm sorry I've been away. School started and I'm back to my favorite things: Class, Grass and Ass (does the last one make me shallow? Maybe).

I'm busting out some fun equations, and, in fact, I've excelled so well in astronomy after only one semester that they are considering giving me a payed tutoring position (but don't say I said that, I'm not supposed to know, and it's not definite). Funny to think how I thought I hated math. I now love the language of numbers almost more than I love the language of words.

But I miss you guys, so I'm taking what little time I have to say hello, and let you all know that you guys are always on my mind and in my heart (Awkward? Well, if the truth be awkward, so be it). Even those of you I hate, you jerks.

A few years back, when I first arrived here, I had felt like I had reached the ceiling of my potential. But, thanks to many of you, I blew through that upper-limit a with a velocity surprising and almost frightening to me. I have a new ceiling, now. Higher than the sky. I never would have known it to be possible if it weren't for many of you (Even those of you I hate, you jerks).

Please realize you are all capable of amazing things.

Peace or Chaos, Win or Lose, Alone or In Good Company, may the Universe smile upon your endeavours.

Dimo, TTLC, HMSH, House of GABCab/Cuddlefish of the Vicious Infinite Regress.

11
Or Kill Me / A Fairy Tale
« on: September 09, 2011, 12:10:36 am »
A long time ago, in a place not too distant from where we are now, there was a star.

This star was special, as it was a milestone in the history of the Universe, destined to be a catalyst for one of the greatest events of all time, regardless of time's circular and amorphous nature. Like an amoeba, the Universe grew without purpose, and chaos, indeed, did course through Her. As years tick-tocked like seconds, the star grew hotter, until eventually it collapsed, shedding it's outer layers back into the womb that birthed it.

The new elements that had formed within the star, once expelled, took form over time, creating worlds. These worlds then formed terrain and atmospheres, weather patterns and magnetic Fields. Some formed fascinating rings of frozen water, others created thick skies and lakes of methane, while even others would develop even more bizarre and unpredicted features. On one world in particular, something unique happened.

The Universe held this one world, in particular, in great favor, and there She gave birth to her successors. On a tiny speck among tiny specks, beings came into existence. Each of these beings, either a god or a demon, were capable of the most wondrous of creations, and the most terrifying destruction, beyond the ability of even their Mother. She had no desire; things moved as they were moved, and stopped only as they stopped. But the gods on the tiny speck-world had the ability to decide. They had intention, and She gave Herself to them, like any good mother would.

These gods and demons each bore a unique and individual symbol; a pattern etched onto their hands and fingertips. These markings were the symbols of the gods and demons born from the stars.

Bound by no thing beyond the most basic forces of nature, these gods decided. They used their unique ability to name each of the ten-thousand-things inhabiting their dust speck. To catalogue and calculate, to observe patterns and then change them to suit their needs. However, the very thing that gave them their power over the ten-thousand-things, their ability to decide, was their undoing.

One of these beings, not satisfied with it's control over Nature, grew the desire to assert his control over his kin. Slowly, he managed to convinced the other gods and demons that they were not gods at all, but merely the creation of one ultimate God. Taking advantage of the pattern-interpretation systems inherent in the first sentients, he was able to convince these once great gods and demons to become lowly. They cursed one another for not being as perfect as this one mythical God. Those that didn't believe were chased out by those that succumbed to the trickery. Slowly, the greatest of gods and demons decided to voluntarily step down. To become slaves to their own creations.

Soon after, all memory of their great heritage was lost. The beings that were destined to be gods, to show the Universe to Herself, were now nothing but stacks of carbon and water following arbitrary rules and orders. They had forgotten that they had the power to decide their own fate, and the fate of the Universe, Herself...

Some say, to this day, you can still see this dust-speck-world when you look towards the heavens. You can see, if you look very closely, the swirling white markings across it's blue-green surface, mimicking the whorls and lines of the star-symbols etched on to the palms and finger-tips of the gods and demons that inhabit it. Some say they are lost forever, eternally confused and bewildered by the world around them. Others think they have long since exterminated the Universes awareness-apparatus, each other. Some people, though considered misguided, believe that one day these beings with the spiral markings granted to them by the stars, would realize the great con that had been perpetrated against them and reclaim their place as Her Eyes and as Her Hands.

But then again, who believes in fairy tales, after all?

12
The Paraplegics will make a glorius return with OUR ORIGINAL LINE-UP on October 8th.

Faces will be fucked, feces will be flung. Chaos and devastation will manifest accross the land with no hope for escepe.

Pussy-ass Mother Nature even attempted to thwart us by throwing hurricanes and earthquakes at us, but she's a feeble old twat.

We can not be stopped.

Resistance is just plain fucking stupid.

Lock the doors.

Hide the kids.

Secure your beer.

You mother fuckers have no hope for survival.

13
Or Kill Me / My Anti-Drug
« on: September 04, 2011, 07:02:46 am »
Tender flesh, like fruits for picking. Scent of breath, warm lips and licking.
Sticky sliding smooth, insisting. Biting nibble no resisting.
Quiver closely then deliver, shiver slightly, flowing river.
Shudder, flutter, melt like butter. It's just once, let's have another.
Time can stop for drops of sweat, the wet and hot, let's not forget...

...The seconds passing, as we're gasping for what we've got, and haven't yet.

There's no drug I could desire that could fly me any higher.
Tire never, skin of fire, in this place where we conspire.
With a sigh the driving hastens, pacing steady, but not racing.
Face to face, no waste of tasting, most basic form of communication.
In moments of anticipation, there exists not one equation...

...For position and momentum in the quantum state of this sensation.
 

14
Or Kill Me / Surfing USA (The Hermit)
« on: August 28, 2011, 12:01:01 am »
He watched from his mountain top encampment as the world below was engulfed by the unrestricted flow of rubble. As the remains of cities continued it's tide, it mixed with lake and sewer water, reducing it's over all viscosity, causing it to move even faster.

He knew this would happen. Though, admittedly, he didn't know it would happen like this. People had laughed at him when he first made the decision to live alone on the mountain top, away from the modern distractions of flashing lights, whistles and dings. He always knew that it was they that were owned by their property, not the other way around. And owned they were. The irony made him chuckle. At least he still had his sense of humor.

But he knew. He knew he would be safe atop his mountain. As he processed the information of the rigid tidal, he grew quite confident that the wave would not reach him. But, still, he was worried. No, the brick and glass, plastic and sewerage would not reach him, but he knew that was not his only concern. He knew that the people, the survivors, would prove to be the biggest challenge of this tragedy. The bricks would not reach him, but the people would.

He envisioned it. A dirty broken convoy of men, women and children climbing his mountain. Carrying with them the remnants of their possesions. Thirsty. Hungry. Some dying during the climb. Children being abandoned on the choppy shoreline, there would be nothing to sustain them, so they are left to the rubble. He saw it in his minds eye, so clear that he could smell their dust and asbestos caked perspiration. He could hear their wails. By not making a choice, they had chosen to ride. They rode, or they died.

The hermit, then, realized it was his time to make a choice of his own. Surely, it would be any day now that the procession of survivors would reach the base of his mountain. He must decide. Start preparing food, beds and medicine, or bar his doors and windows, with a note taped to the main entrance, saying: "I told you so."

15
Or Kill Me / Surfing USA (prologue)
« on: August 27, 2011, 07:02:46 pm »
 There was a palpable sensation in the air that day. Sort of what you would expect on a very hot very humid afternoon. Except it was neither hot, nor humid. It was this weird "bearing down" sensation, unlike anything anyone had felt before. Kind of like gravity itself had somehow gotten a little stronger. There was weight in the air.

Most people chose to spend the day outside, luckily. They conveined on porches and stoops across the country. A lot of places had been shut down because the machines and gadgets weren't working properly, and the water tables were all fucked up, on top of that. Every one of them was aware of what was going on, they had seen the ever-so-slight bend in the beams and trusses, but no one spoke a word about it. They chose to not see it coming.  

Then it happened, and when it did, it happened in waves.

The first house dropped at 5:23 Eastern time. Flattened in less than a second, compacted into it's own foundation, the shockwave erupting debris. This started a chain reaction, clear across the neighborhood. House by house, flattened within moments. A hungry ripple of old junk, plywood, glass and cheap vinyl siding. This same scene played out in almost the exact same fashion in small cities and towns clear across the country.

Some people panicked. Others ignored it, it was only low and lower-middle class properties that imploded, after all. The media was having a Field day, along with religious leaders all over the world. The scientific community collectively scratched their heads.

Numbers began coming in a few days later. The death toll of the incident was mounting, and there were hundreds yet to be accounted for. The damage was more than significant, even if isolated. Cities built near fault lines, or otherwise coded for natural disasters, took the least amount of damage, and refugees began pouring in. No one got a chance to hear the final death toll. Because it wasn't over.

It seemed to have happened in slow motion, yet instantly and out of nowhere. Churches with steeples and buildings with similar structures collapsed in on their supports, spearing themselves into oblivion, in sepukku style suicides. Old factory buildings, brick and iron monoliths from the industrial age, spiderwebbed with cracks suddenly, then shattered into flying fragments and tangles of concrete and re-bar. Skyscrapers, en masse, fell into themselves and onto each other, hurling I-beams like javelins. Bridges. Schools. Hospitals. Simultaneous collapse.

Under the extreme gravity, the debris churned and folded in on itself, expelling cars and wire fence and then re-consuming them. The outward force of the shockwave propelled it all. As the waves proceeded, the sea of destruction swelled into a massive tidal wave as high as a skyscraper. There was only one thing anyone could do at this point:

Ride or Die.

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