Principia Discordia

Quote from: me
EDIT: IT'S A SECRET YOU FUCKS

Quote from: Broken AI on August 11, 2009, 08:35:02 PM
This issue Practically Guaranteed* to be 100% totally pedophile FREE!

*not an actual guarantee.

Quote from: The Lord and Lady Omnibus Fuck on August 12, 2009, 06:37:11 PM
I'll see if I can come up with something too... I haven't written shit lately!

Quote from: Telarus on September 07, 2009, 10:56:47 PM
I need a caption for this one:
(http://img242.imageshack.us/img242/1709/tgrrexecutioner.jpg)

And then I'll have 3 graphics to submit.

Quote from: Cramulus on September 09, 2009, 02:12:32 PM
(http://i209.photobucket.com/albums/bb163/wompcabal/roflbot-0jeu.jpg)

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Neal Stephenson's Man Walks Dog

The Dogwalker is a member of an elite order, a sacred occupation. He gets the same kind of respect that, in ages past, a priest or a shaman might get. He works with the animals. He communicates their needs. He handles the shit.

To protect him from the shit, he has the equipment justifiable to such a hallowed profession. His boots, leather and steel-toed, protect him from teeth and lawn mowers alike, and if a postman should let his gaze be drawn to the woman across the street who likes to undress with the windows open, his toes won't get a single scratch as the tires roll over, though his bread and butter -- the canine -- may not be so lucky. Knowing this, he uses his GPS unit (his position triangulated by three geosyncronous sattelites, timing his ping response via microwave strong enough to reach outer space but weak enough not to fry his innards) to overlay the post office route map as well as the current location of all postal trucks, so as to avoid unhappy accidents. To handle the shit directly, he has neoprine nanopore gloves -- skin tight, feeling for all the world like he's wearing nothing at all. When he's done with the job, he doesn't store them -- he just pitches them out and gets a new pair, because they are disposable.

On this particular day, it is sunday, so there are no postal trucks on the road at all. He looks left, then right, and then proceeds to cross the street with his fuzzy ward in tow.



William Gibson's Man Walks Dog

Hearing the buzz of the antique analogue tin Pepsi-Cola brand alarm clock, Wage turned over, still half asleep. Feeling numbly with his fingers, he managed to deactivate the device, and peeked under the cheap polystyrine butt of the venitian blinds.

The sky was the colour of television, tuned to input four.

He pulled on a tee shirt and pants. The pants were ancient pleated khakis from a garage sale, probably dating back to when men with buzz-cuts and slide rules consulted the president wearing such things. The shirt was green.

Foregoing socks, he pulled on an old, beaten-up pair of steel-toed Doc Martens. The liner was frayed bare, and only shreds of unwoven thread protected the skin of his forestep from the leather of the boot.

Peeling the cardboard liner from its housing, he opened up a new box of neoprine surgical gloves, putting them on.

Today, he would walk the dog.



H. P. Lovecraft's Man Walks Dog

Letter from the late J. Q. Wage, released after his death:

Perhaps the greatest thing about human perception is the things we miss. Indeed, it is only our total lack of understanding about the universe -- and how little we know of that which is all around us -- that forms the thin line between everyday life and madness. Some nights, when the moon is full and the stars are right, I shiver in my bed, remembering against my own will the events of so many years ago.

It was not a night like that, the day it started. Indeed, looking back, I would never have -- could never have -- expected things to lead where they did.

The sun was high and bright, and there was not a cloud in the blue sky. On my way to pick up the dog -- at the time I was a dog-walker by trade, and visited the houses of those who were willing to pay me to walk their dogs for them -- I saw a vendor selling hot dogs. I did not think anything of it at the time, but looking back, my body shivers at the correlation, perhaps only chance, that I wish to god I had grasped then and ceased walking -- went back, anywhere! Oh god, have mercy upon me, for I have done things out of fear that should never be done. But alas, I hardly can believe in a god anymore; it is more comforting to imagine the heavens empty than to consider the existence of a god that would let such things happen!

I walked on, still. In my memory -- perhaps a fault imposed by my recollection later, or perhaps a natural function of the heat of the day, though I know not which -- my gloves became damp on the inside. Oh god -- or no god -- how I wish this had given me an inkling -- any inkling -- to how these events would end!

Unknowing that which I was about to walk into, or perhaps willfully blind, I happily retrieved the dog and began to cross the street.



James Joyce's Man Walks Dog

Will-fully I went two yonder dog-house for the house which had the dog or god which dog lives in not! I do not know but my green shirt springled as I walked merrily acrose the whey the road meandered with the dog and my glove and the dog and the shit and my green shirt and gloves and vestiments assorted other. Shall I pick the shit up? Pick it up? Why don't you pick it up? It really comes to something when they expect you top ick it up! Yes, yes, I'll pick it up, yes, yes, yes, a thousand times yes.



Tim Leary's Man Walks Dog

I will tell you a secret. Just between you and me, dog walking can be fun and profitable.

I spent years researching the walking of dogs, and the outcome of this is three rules which -- IF FOLLOWED CORRECTLY -- will maximize your dog walking enjoyment and experience.

1. Wear gloves

2. Wear steel-toed shoes

3. Don't get hit by a car.

These may sound glib, but don't let that fool you. Too many people have ruined their dog-walking experiences irrevocably by breaking one or more of these rules.

By practicing dog-walking through this system, I can gaurantee that you will improve your dog-walking experience. This doesn't mean that you will become the Mozart of dog walking, or the Yo Yo Ma of dog walking. It may merely mean that you will be the best dog-walker on your street, or in your block, or on your floor of the appartment. But, if you don't follow them, I cannot see how you can improve at all.

Quote from: Nigel on May 29, 2009, 08:43:26 PM


The damned pterodactyl was  right behind me... I knew I could never get away from it, not with the distance I still had to make to the door of my house. My back prickled as I sensed it swooping closer, and I wheeled around in desperation, ready to fight to the last with my bare hands. But why wasn't the cursed beast attacking me already? Instead, it had landed, and was prancing a bit awkwardly and making a strange creeling call. Mesmerized, I could only stand and watch its hypnotic dance and the bobbing of its head as it pranced ever closer. It wasn't until it was nearly upon me, wings spread, that I noticed it was a male.

It pinned me ever so carefully up against the side of my garage, and I was stunned by the heat and urgency with which it was rubbing its firm, satiny body against me, until I could feel the throb and swell of its penis growing erect. Unbidden, I felt in myself a matching heat spreading from my loins, and for the first time I realized what was about to happen... so wrong! But I had no choice. The razor-sharp beak of the wicked animal clacked softly, only inches from my ear. And, I realized with a thrill of the forbidden, I wanted it! I wanted to feel its hot pterodactyl prod inside me. I caressed the beast, tentatively at first, running my hands over its dry, slightly velvety hide, and it responded with increased enthusiasm. I reached down and grasped its hard, wet, and slightly prehensile erection, and it let out a soft "creeeeeel" in my ear. I slid to my knees and breathed hard against the silky membranous skin for a moment, letting the rich aroma of pterosaur musk drift to my brain.

I let the head slip into my mouth and press against my tongue, melting into the heat and instinct of sucking. I caressed the base of its tail while pulling
it in as deep as it could, pressing my nose into the beast's skin, sliding my tight-kissed mouth up and down his length, slowing and quickening with the rhythm of his clacking, and his wing-claws on my shoulders and in my hair. I felt the throb and beat of his blood and the flexing of his haunches as my pterodactyl lover went weak-legged against me, and I held him close with one arm, keeping him tight to my face while with the other hand I stripped off my button-front dress to press my sex-wakened breasts against his knobby little knees. I pulled off his beast-organ with a wet little "pop" and edged myself to my back, and the creature fell atop me, eagerly thrusting. I pulled my soaking panties down to offer my wet pussy to his ready pterodactylhood, and he entered me, plunging deeply with a reverberating screech. I answered his cries with my own wails of ecstasy, as he bucked and thrust into me, his prehensile penis bringing me to the brink of prehistoric bliss in our unholy, unnatural, and anachronistic coupling. Finally, in a crescendo of clacking and creeling, my new master pulled out of me and I spasmed into orgasm as I watched his hot custard-colored lizard cream rocket forth and cover my tits with pungent Mesozoic cum.

I no longer fear the pterodactyls, as I have learned that their blood-thirst can be quenched... with good good loving.

QuoteFingers crossed this should all be done in (about) a month or so.