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Topics - President Television

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The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / I want to speak.
« on: November 26, 2013, 11:37:23 am »
I want to speak, but I don't know what to say. I don't have anything to say. Even when I do have something to say, someone else has said it. I don't have words anymore, so much as a general sense of terror and dread, and no particular reason for either one. I'm living in Calgary, capital of the richest province in the country, and I can't find a job. You see, whatever thoughts I have, such as they are, are terribly selfish, and never even tangentially connected to the subject at hand. But too much is better than not enough, as "Bob" said, so I might as well vomit up everything I can manage, coherency be damned. I'm afraid Roger would hate me if I spoke. I'm afraid one day soon this place'll come crashing down around our ears, and when the dust settles it'll be Nigel and LMNO and Twid and ECH and all the rest standing ankle-deep in it like giants, and I'll be a gnat nibbling at their heels.

I'm afraid I'll never get along with my grandparents. They're too nice, and I'm too much of an asshole. I love them, but I hate being around them, because I always feel like I have to pull my punches. I hate pulling my punches. It's the only thing I ever get to do. Last time I didn't, I got fired, and then I headed out west to be unemployed in Calgary. I'm afraid I'll end up like Gilligan, too boring for heaven or hell. I'm afraid I'll sign up for university, and I'll fail at everything because I have such a shitty attention span. I'm afraid I'm dancing around the fact that it's really just simple stupidity, and there's nothing I can do about it. I'm afraid that's just cowardice, and I'm just too pathetic to take responsibility for my own laziness. I'm afraid I'm too weak for the military. I'm afraid it's the only place I'd ever feel at home anyway.
I'm afraid there's a rapist around every corner. Some of them have a badge and a gun, and some of them don't, but it doesn't matter, because if you fight the ones that don't have guns they'll just call the ones that do, and then the rapists with badges will come to throw you in a cage with rapists in bright orange uniforms. I'm afraid that the voice in my head that tells me to be afraid isn't really mine, it's something my stepdad jammed into my head years ago, and that's the scariest part, because how many of the rest of my thoughts are mine? I can't trust my fear, I can't trust my thoughts. In the back of my skull there's a leering face, the face of evil, a snaggle-toothed ape of a man stinking of tobacco and salivating in pleasure at the thought of stepping on throats in jackboots or maybe pinning down a little boy, and whispering in my ears, all the time.

And every time I see the man in person, or hear him on the phone, it's GO AWAY GO AWAY GO AWAY GO AWAY GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT and I can't hear myself over it because I guess it is myself, all of myself, so there's nothing left of me to speak. I'm afraid I'll be a virgin for the rest of my life. I guess I'm not technically a virgin, but I'm afraid I'll never go there by choice, I'll never know for sure that it isn't really the way it's always been for me, forced, hated pleasure at the barrel of a gun. I'm afraid I'll trigger someone by writing this. I'm afraid I'll never understand or respect the need for trigger warnings, and I'm afraid that makes me a sociopath. I feel like a monster when I don't feel weak, and I feel weak when I don't feel like a monster. Always snapping, always shrinking away, always cowering one way or another because talking to people to their faces and hearing their derision is just too scary of a prospect.

I'm afraid I'm one-dimensional for failing to forget about it, failing to find anything else to think about but it's this all day every day and this is why I look down my nose at the rest of these pussies with flashbacks because I don't need a trigger, I live it every day. But still I'm afraid it makes me flat. I'm afraid it makes me an attention whore. Worse, I'm afraid it was good for me. I'm afraid that if you took it away, there'd be nothing left of me. I'm afraid the man knows what I've been up to, I'm afraid he'll leave behind everything he's spent his life hoarding, the greedy fuck he is, and he'll drive across the country for a week with a rifle and shoot me, and maybe shoot everyone I love along the way. I ended it with a deal, a bargain, a pact, you see. Nobody finds out, and he doesn't kill himself, but I'm pretty sure there was another implicit deal that if I keep my mouth shut I get to keep my head. And this is why I don't speak.

Or Kill Me / All Justified
« on: May 03, 2013, 04:55:27 am »
Dammit, I hate what I've become. I'm a walking appliance. I can do the work of two men, but I can't smile, or tell a joke, or even laugh at one. I spend all my time at work half-awake, trying to psychoanalyze myself and make up fucking terrible fantasy settings for games that are doubly imaginary, since they'll only ever exist in my own head. I have no education and no idea what I even want out of life. The only friends I ever see in person are filthy borderline cultists that keep pressuring me into joining a hypothetical primitivist settlement that I really don't want anything to do with because I think it's fucking retarded, and it hurts whenever I see them, because it feels like I'm watching them die. I talk to them, but I know on some level I'm just talking to the corpses of the friends I used to have, and what's left is just a pair of puppets, and sometimes I can feel the things inside them reaching out with their tentacles and trying to pull me in. And you know what? They were jerks to begin with. And so was I. So fuck it. It is what it is, and everyone involved deserved it.

And right off the bat, he's talking about removing all the daily spell limits. And I'm like no, dude, just give us wands. Make them cheap. Apply the price adjustment that you'd apply to firearms in a Guns Everywhere setting and you're golden. Look, I have Ultimate Combat right here. 10%. There you go.
And then he starts going off about how maybe I'm right, but continues to kind of miss the point. He's like, "Maybe the battle mages have magic items that are kind of like wands, but they recharge every day and you can change which spells are stored in them." And I say no, you're underestimating wands. They'll do just fine.
And then it occurs to me that in a setting where everyone's a spellcaster, the schools of Illusion and Enchantment are almost completely useless. Conversely, spells that require Fortitude or Reflex saves are overpowered.

Is it worth trying to balance, or should I write off the idea altogether?

Alright, passengers. This is your captain speaking. Buckle in, fold your trays up and make sure your seat is locked in an upright position. We're about to have a little turbulence. If you look out the window to your right, you should be able to see the flooded-in remains of the eastern seaboard, anti-air batteries and the occasional little blue gremlin snacking on the skin of the wing. On your left, there should be... Never mind. I hear it looks back into you, and then the cold sweats and the night chills never go away for however long you've still got left. Best to close your blinds.
Yeah, the conditions are pretty rough. But then, it always gets that way up where we're headed. It's grim up north, says the captain's manual, and this flip-book calender looks an extra page thick. And there are monsters down below, horrible things. Writhing, squamous, toothy things, climbing atop each other to eat us whole. But we're too high for them, and we're too fast for them, and maybe the panels off the tail fin will be enough to throw them off our trail. And there's something in the fish, but we'll have that taken care of when we get to our destination. So buckle in. Chat, read the paper, whatever. And whatever you do, don't panic. We've still got cabin pressure. We've still got hydraulics. We've still got wings.

But I am getting a little low on air. Would Striker head to the cockpit and relieve me? Thanks.

Or Kill Me / Uncle Wallified's High School Writing Repository
« on: November 11, 2011, 12:03:49 am »
Yes, I've decided to post some writing that I did back in high school. Because really, how miserable to you have to be to feel nostalgic about that?


As I walk along the walking path,
All the world is a blur
Until I reach the bridge.
I always stop
To look upon
This graveyard
Painted with skeletons of philosophy.
"GOD IS DEAD" proclaims the bridge,
But the words are lost in an orgasm
Of colour and swastikas.


The music in my head
Is factory machinery,
Thousands of feet on a tile floor,
The beep of a deep-frier.
But there is also the roar
Of a distorted guitar,
And the howl
Of a police officer
Getting kneed in the balls.


Black twisted barbed wire
Has tightened itself
Around my eyes.
I want to tear it away,
But it has become my universe.


empty trees
bring memories
of a solitary brand of fun
snow that heaps
till the plow chops it up
into neat little cliffs
cliffs to climb
cliffs to break
and harvest for a sculpture
of a cyborg onion
a concerningly phallic shape

Avoidant Personality

you won't hate me
will you?
if I observe some of my sadness
reflected in your face
and wonder:
if you were my mirror
would I like what I'd see?
more than I love myself,
I mean
(though that's a pretty low bar
to set)
I guess what I mean to ask is
this shyness, does it make me
a creep?


when I write
in lower case
the words seem to float
without punctuation
without squiggly comma legs

in this city
there are monsters
they live ordinary lives
and they plan their own extinction
while they're hiding from their wives
the company's a mistress
with a perfect alibi

yeah, I'm a coward
let me way out

in this pity
there's a death glare
I can't help my own damn pride
I'm a special kind of cripple
I'm the kind that beats his guide
my glass is pretty empty
when it's laying on its side

yeah, I'm a loser
let me way out

in this shithead
there's a talent
but it only sits and sighs
and he doesn't talk to no one
not an ordinary guy
he could be so special
yeah, and he could really fly

yeah, that's a lie
so let me way out

if I dared to talk to you
the first thing I'd say would be
"I'm glad to be a decoy
on your hunt for enlightenment"
and excuse my point of view
but I'd knock you back a few satoris
cause you can't be one with nature
if you're two with a machine

if I had a microphone
the first thing I'd say would be
"It's nice to be alive but
could I have an amplifier?"
and excuse my honesty
but I'd knock a window outta that store
cause you can't get rich and famous
without taking it away

if I was a parakeet
the first thing I'd say would be
whatever goofy thing you'd
think's funny enough to teach me
and excuse my servitude
but I'd leave every word in that story
cause Polly don't quite give a shit
bout your friends and family
Pouches on pouches on pouches. You just know Robert Liefeld had a say in her fashion sense. Atop a crown of kaliedoscopic spiky hair sat a pair of swimming goggles, useless. It took me a second to realize it, but she wasn't wearing pants at all. For some unfathomable reason, she'd taken to fastening a full-length skirt around each leg with an oversized safety pin. Her modesty was protected by a tie-die t-shirt that reached her knees. Over this was a vest, on which the aforementioned pouches perched. All atop a pair of sensible brown leather shoes.

Or Kill Me / Ouroboros
« on: September 27, 2011, 10:43:55 pm »
You create, and you destroy, and you negate it all with a wrathful twitch of your fingers at the keyboard. You know this isn't what you want to be, this 21st-century monkey raised by the internet, but you're too bored and too tired to do a thing about it, and you know that your fingers aren't hitting hard enough. Of course not. These fingers were made for flinging shit, but you know that that isn't what you want. You want to be a glorious mad bastard, and you could dance in the ashes of the last age of nuclear hellfire if only you'd learn to let those feet fly. But the feet have fingers of their own, and thumbs besides, and sometimes it feels like the thumbs are all you've got.

Bullshit. Batshit. APESHIT. You know you're kidding yourself. You could be a god if you weren't so wrapped up in your self-indulgent self-hating fappery. YOU COULD BREAK THIS CITY. All you need to do is practice. Practice, and one day you too could be the spectacular porcelain-cracking wonderboy of brilliant, mad, deranged and perverted prophecy, burning and razing nations with a breath and pausing only briefly to sing "I Am Henry the Eighth I Am" to the screams of a thousand dessicated rabid Tusconite savages. Isn't that motivation enough?! Fine then. Wallow in your shit, and feed on it, and twist in on yourself like origami. And when the lights go out, you'll be the first they throw in the fire. Because you're a freak. You know it, and they know it. They can smell it on you. YOU WALK NOT IN A LAND OF GODS BUT IN A LAND OF HIDEOUS TWISTED APES. GIVE EM HELL.

Or Kill Yourself.

Or Kill Me / Mediocre, but I suppose it's a start.
« on: September 27, 2011, 06:54:05 am »
Never mind. Nothing to see here.

Aneristic Illusions / Jack Layton is dead.
« on: August 22, 2011, 02:59:13 pm »

Well then. Now that the only leftist politician with the balls to stand up to Harper is dead and his replacement is being subjected to a largely-successful smear campaign, we're pretty much in the same boat as America, aren't we?

The Richard Nixon school of ballet and the arts / ATTN: DOK HOWL
« on: April 09, 2011, 05:50:29 pm »
What is the meaning of this?


RPG Ghetto / Engineer Class for Pathfinder
« on: February 17, 2011, 04:59:42 am »
Ok, here's the deal: I'm planning out this setting for Pathfinder, and one of the central aspects of the backstory is the conflict between magic and technology. Because of this, I want to have a class built around working with machinery. Not an artificer; I want this class to be able to work without magic, or at least with a bare minimum of magical involvement. I'm thinking of building it based on the Engineer advanced class from D20 Modern, but I don't have a lot of experience and there's a whole extra 10 levels to come up with if I want to make this a base class, on top of the necessary cross-system adjustments. How do I build class, PD?

RPG Ghetto / Barkley, Shut Up And Jam: Gaiden
« on: February 14, 2011, 01:31:00 pm »
I love this game and I haven't even played it yet. CHAAAAAAOOOOOOOS DUNK!

Or Kill Me / No meal for the Root Bear.
« on: December 09, 2010, 06:46:53 pm »
We hustle to delight every single customer with perfect food served blazingly fast.
Well, so do I now. I am employed, and A&W seeks to devour my soul with its corporate propaganda! I will not have this! I will not submit! It's important to KYFMS, I know, it's important to lay low, but I've been trying to lay low for my entire life now, and I'm telling you, it only makes me stand out. It's no good. All this time I've been keeping my head down, I could have been doing something amazing. I could have been having a good time. I was told that a job would bring freedom. Not this job. This job brings only stifling regularity. I will not stand for this! That's why now, I'm finally going to take some initiative and really fuck myself over. I'd love to see how deep the rabbit hole goes, but first I have to fall in, right? That's the problem with me, you see. All my life, I've been afraid of the consequences of fun. I've been a coward. No more! I choose to embrace my mania! I'll do my job, sure, but in my free time:
I WILL get another job.
I WILL have a good time.
I WILL break this town.
Or Kill Me.

RPG Ghetto / Building Outlandish DnD Classes (3.5e)
« on: September 01, 2010, 04:53:12 am »
Alright. I've recently begun preparing to DM for my friends, and as I went over the contents of the DM's Guide, I could not help thinking that it could be great fun to be able to play, say, a mad wizard who specializes in combining magic with science. Or a nerd empathically bound with a shapeshifting magical weapon, empowered by a knowledge of engineering. Or a magic-user with spells bound directly into one's body, such that spells are literally secreted from the glands and digestive system.

Currently, due to a friend's request for a kickass living motorcycle mount, I'm working on the second of those classes. What I'm having trouble with is the weapon itself. I'm treating it roughly like a familiar, except that the class depends entirely on it. I was planning on having a spell-list-like system in place for its forms, heavily restricting its size and technical complexity at first, with larger and more complicated forms becoming accessible as it levels up. Unfortunately, it seems that many of the weapons as described in the Player's Handbook are of similar size and complexity, meaning that they'd theoretically be available very early on, which would be somewhat overpowered. Of course, I could devise a tech tree system, with each technology available requiring prerequisites. Now the problem remains of designing an entire repertoire of technologies and weapons available to a shapeshifting magic weapon. I want it to be fun and distinctive from the other classes without making it overpowered and Mary Sue-ish, but can you blame me for being sorely tempted to make mecha a distinct level 20 possibility for this class? Hell, would an Iron Man suit be overpowered at that level? Where should I draw the line?

Or Kill Me / I Can't Write, Part 1
« on: September 01, 2010, 03:25:56 am »
It's lonely in here. Sometimes it gets to me. Whenever that happens, I remind myself that being a beastly antisocial subhuman creep is my own choice. I could go out and integrate into society any time I want to. I could even be fairly likable, maybe. But I refuse to compromise my ideals(read: "SELF-INDULGENCE? PETTINESS? UNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNG"). The world's a shithole, but that doesn't mean I have to go out there and pollute it even more with my insipid brainwaves. It doesn't really make me feel any better, but it's something, I guess.

Except that lately, I'm beginning to think that maybe it isn't enough. After all, is it not imperative to have a good time? If meeting people and having fun with them makes life better, why should I withold them from me, and myself from them? The world may be a shithole, but that's no excuse to cower and hide away. One should strive to make it better. Yeah, I'm discontented. But that is as it should be. It's motivation. If I hate society as it is, why not try to fix it? Why not join this stagnant culture that I hate and make it into something with substance? After all, my misanthropy is truly motivated by love. I love humanity, I really do, but I'm frustrated that it can't take care of itself. I'm frustrated that it puts up with its own bullshit. Why should I suppress that love for any longer? I'm only making things worse by festering in hate. Yeah, I'm sounding like a hippie. So what?

Shoot me if I'm wrong.

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