intermitten phobia

[the last yatto]

ͨ̔̊̿͂̽̄́́looks cool
S̨̓ͬ̀̾̏͗ͣ͘͜h̊̓̾̾̇͑͗͘o͛̅̉ͨ͊͆õ̌̑t̨ͨ͊ͥ̽̓ͫ̚ ̸̃ͤ̓̂̈ͨ̐̓̀oͧ́҉̶̴ṙ̃̋͋́ͯ̍͏̴ ̈́̽͋̌҉̡m̍̐͊͜ơ̸̷ͮ̂ͣ̈v͑̇̄̄͛ͦ͠҉̡e̴ͫ̔̚҉?̡̾́̔

but i like your first one
trying to keep to nine pages, unless i got alot more articles

grey text background is good

[the last yatto]

In the absence of a proper article, may I submit this? http://namcub.accela-labs.com/stories/jabberwocky.odt

if you want it to look just like that i need the 4 fonts to import

edit: hmmm would be useful if it wasnt like way bigger then a piece of paper

[Rococo Modem Basilisk]

Oh. Which ones? I can provide. Or, I can just turn it into an image.

Edit: I just turned it into an image.

http://namcub.accela-labs.com/pics/jabberwocky.gif

Original background image: http://namcub.accela-labs.com/pics/madhatter.jpg

[the last yatto]

UHHHH why so fucking huge... you know what size a piece of paper is... its like 600 wide and FUCKIT tall

i cut the 3x3 comic into the standard 2x2 and the punchline seems fine still

yeap..


sad but true, christians after they destroyed the ancient world, they turned upon each other, i quess you are already aware of this. Still here in Greece, they are against all the other religions and special against 12 gods etc. sad story,\

[the last yatto]

Arachibutyrophobia is...
the fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth.

[Triple Zero]

whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat O-M-G

http://www.phobia-fear-release.com/i-suffer-from-arachibutyrophobia-fear-of-peanut-butter-sticking-to-the-roof-of-the-mouth.html

I think you can copy this verbatim.

[Rococo Modem Basilisk]

For more horrormirth.

[Rococo Modem Basilisk]

It occurs to me that most of the little chunks of fiction I have floating around that I've written fall into the horror category (marginally). If you need face-spillerspace-filler, I can provide those.

[tjg92]

Damn, I really need to read some Lovecraft one of these days.

[the last yatto]

I HAVE BEEN TO THE MOUNTAIN TOP. I've been above the tree line, where nothing grows but lichen, and nobody's really sure if that counts as life or not anyway. The air is thin up there, but you can see a long, long way. You can see your house, you can see your car, you can see the roads we draw in the sand, and how pitiful they are, stretching on for miles but barely scratching the surface of an inhospitable landscape. You can see the hills and the mountains, crawling silently toward the cities; the rivers, slowly carving out the graves of civilization.

To be sure, a lot of things are happening, most of it just slightly beyond the edges of our perception. And while it all happens we are down here, scampering back and forth confused little ants, never really sure what we're doing
(or why), but carrying on like there's no other way. Yes, you can see a lot from the top of a mountain. I guess that's all I'm trying to say.

I also have something to say about PD. Much like a hometown, PD is the place where many of us first realized something very important, whatever it might be. It is a place that somehow (and honestly I have no idea how, exactly) is able to leave an impression. It's just SMF with some fancy emoticons and higher quality spags, but for some reason many of us find it to be a place that, in our increasingly cardboard world, really feels like somewhere. There is a first time for everything, and PD has seen a lot of things have their first time. It saw the first time I ever shouted my guts up about something and, instead of a virtual room filled with vacant applause or uneasy agreement for a few moments, there was a room filled with discussion about topics I thought nobody would ever be able to discuss.

PD is also like a hometown in that eventually you want to leave. It could be for any reason; maybe Roger's pants are on too tight one day and he looks at you funny. Maybe some noob has infiltrated Apple Talk and is spamming the place up. Maybe there is a gigantic Sociological Experiment going on and you're secretly the butt of some ass-tard's half-cocked scheme to get a few cheap yuks at your expense. Or maybe, like me, you just start feeling like the magic is gone and you haul off blaming everybody around you for that, like it's their job to make you feel like a fucking princess.

Anyway, the point is that eventually, you might want to leave PD, in spite of the fact that is magical, wondrous, and basically the best thing on the Internet (aside from Russian porno). In fact, the more impressed you are with PD at first, the higher the chance is that later, you will want out for some reason.

But I will also tell you that there is no escape. Out there in the world, where you are but gear being ground to a pulp in the Machine, where there is no light except whatever comes dripping out of late-night TV, while you sit there with a death grip on every space between inconsequential decisions, wondering to yourself why your life has no direction and why nothing makes any sense and why there is nobody to talk to about it; out there where Discord is bad, and nobody likes you making fun of their dead Aunt's funeral dress... Out there, you'll find your way back here faster than you think. Because PD isn't just a website, it's the gaping maw at the end of every Discordian's quest for meaning.

[Doktor Howl]

Look what I MADE him do!

[the last yatto]

The Jar Was Empty

By Dimo, TTLC

They set you up, you know. The Big Man in Charge, he couldn't cut it, so he made you a scapegoat. Sure, it was presented as a gift, but who gives gifts like this without an ulterior motive?

"Don't press the shiny, alluring red button, Lil' miss." Yeah, we all know how that always ends up. Yes, they set you up, threw you right under the bus. Someone needed to take the fall, and you better believe it wasn't going to be the Big Man in Charge. He needed to stick around. Who else was qualified for the continuous distribution of Hellfire and Damnation? I mean really qualified.

So you pressed the big red button. You opened the jar. Now, they say you released these terrible things to plague humanity. They took advantage of your natural inquisitiveness, made not only a scape goat of Woman, but of all of us that share that same natural curiosity. "What makes this work?" "Why does this happen?" Don't ask now. The Big Man in Charge won't answer. Not only does he not want you to know, but he's not all that sure himself.

There's good news to be had here, however. I'll let you in on a little secret.

The jar was empty.

Those terrible, terrible plagues that you, supposedly, let loose on mankind were already there. They were never in the jar in the first place. They just wanted you to believe that, so you would take responsibility for what they have done.

No, the jar was empty. (except for maybe a couple of those springy snake things that hide in a can of peanuts on occasion). Completely empty. Not only were all those baddies not in there, but hope itself was absent as well. Don't worry, though. Hope was never what The Big Man in Charge chalked it  up to be. Hope is what keeps people from actually doing something about it. "I hope, someday, to achieve" can now change to "I will achieve." "We must keep hope alive for a better future" changes to "We can create a better future." Hope is a nice, warm pillow that can only help you while you're lying down and defensless. But it's OK now, because now we know that the jar was empty.
 

There's probably nothing in here that will be mind-bendingly entertaining. I woke up at 6 AM still drunk with the spins, and now I am just in a strange mood. A thousand pardons.

I'd say I was losing it.
I'd say I was losing it if I thought for one second that I ever "had it."
I'd say that something's wrong, that shit's simply just fucked beyond all repair.
I'd say that something's wrong if I didn't already know for a fact that it is. No need to state the obvious.

I don't sleep at night anymore.
I'm not really sure why.
It's not because I'm not tired, 'cuz I am.
I just lay in the dark, staring at blank.
While the brain, it just runs.
I tell it to shut the fuck up, and that I'm trying to get some rest.
But it just keeps running.
Maybe it's smarter than I am and it knows better whats best for me.
Which, in this case, is that I am not to sleep for some reason.

I've written off most of my friends. For a lot of reasons.
Mainly because they annoy me.
I'm a relatively poor person. I don't really have a problem with that.
The problem I have is listening to my whiny-bitch friends complain that they have it soooo rough.
They compain that they are in "tough times" while they drive Lexus's, eat out every night, and only drink "the best beer."
Seriously? Boo fucking hoo. Fuck off. You never hear me complain...

The others, well, fuck them too, while we're at it.
"Dimo, why don't you hang out anymore?"
Because you hang at trendy bars with trendy trend setters.
The "Providence scene" lost its appeal to me when I was fourteen.
A bitter winter filled with liquid acid and high-grade marijuana gives things a certain tranparency.
At the very least, a certain opaqueness.

So, I tell them all to fuck off.
And now it's just me and my brain and, gahd, it won't shut up.

I've tried to make new friends, which can be difficult for someone as particular as I can be at times.
Not to mention my general disdain for people... in general.
Despite this, I've had success to a certain degree but they're less like friends and more like activity partners or really cool co-workers, which I suppose is OK.
But sometimes I want to do more than just hang some flyers and have a good chuckle about it.

Why does no one know how to have fun anymore?
I'd show them how, but it seems that I've forgotton how myself.
Unfortunate.
It's frustrating. Knowing you once knew something that you now no longer know, y'know?

Fuck it.
What am I even doing? Like, right now and in the whole "grand scheme" of things.
I'm not really sure, I guess.
Nevermind...
It's all one big tangent...

also asked dok on irc, and he agreed that yatto can use some of roger's material
also going to include his rant at intermittens just to see if after its releases that its pointed out

[the last yatto]

CAN I PLEASE USE THIS kthxbai

I may have mentioned this before, but I work in a cubicle field.  That is, the entire floor is open, no walls, with rows of three-foot high modular walls creating "X"s on the floor, and in each corner of the "X", sits a obedient little worker; their standard issue Dell computer, glowing monitor, filing cabinet, phone.  Some people don't decorate their cubes, which is depressing.  Other people spend a lot of time putting up pictures of cats, and Dilbert cartoons, and posters that say things like, "You don't have to be crazy to work here, but it sure helps!" which makes it even more depressing.  When you see that someone took that much dedicated time to decorate their workspace, you wind up remembering how many hours you actually spend at that desk, and how easy it is to just let the non-work part of your life just slip away.  Eventually, you wind up moving most of your stuff to the office, and only use your house to eat, bathe, and sleep.

They handed out a survey the other day.  It asked us questions about "respect and dignity in the workplace," with a small box next to each question where we could write our answers.  I just stared at it for a few minutes.  There's no way I could complete this.  I mean, I knew what they what they were looking for.  Undoubtedly, HR had gotten wind that some people were unhappy working for the company, and were trying to make them feel good about themselves and their jobs.  They wanted to hear responses like "I don't want to be ignored."  The people working here just want someone to come by once a week, or even once a month, pat them on the head, and tell them they're doing a good job.  They want to keep perpetuating the illusion that their work has value, or that the importance of what they do in turn makes them important, too.  HR was looking for the quick fix for an entrenched problem.  The problem, of course, is that humans have these pesky feelings.  You can't just use them for their analytical brains without also having to eventually deal with their emotions, as well.  The problem is most felt by those who have forgotten about their lives outside the office.  If the company is all you have, then the company is the only thing giving your life any worth.

The whole idea of "respect and dignity at the workplace" is meaningless if you're dealing with people who surrendered their own respect and dignity to the monolithic company.  All you can do at that point is set up arbitrary and cyclical appreciation periods, from the rote "you're all doing a great job, really" meetings to hosting the tab at a bar for your team.  You have to create an artificial life for them, to give them the comfort and affirmations they crave.  But that's not respect.  That's not dignity.  Respect, like communication, only happens between equals.  Dignity is something you hold within your chest like a pike in the face of an oncoming cavalry.  And what each person needs to build their dignity and respect is unique to that person.  You can't just institute a new set of rules that sort of fits a Gaussian average based upon surveys.  It's all one long tail.

[LMNO]

It seems to be missing the punchline. Without that, it's just a pissy rant about why you're a better person than your co-worker is.

[the last yatto]

hmm i thought it carried it well for the theme of the issue, by being sort of a job anxiety ...
and for a new audience it worked shorter...
as i feel  it fits sme mindset rather then a magazine article... 

i can include more...
maybe it needs to be reworked like dimo did to his one piece

If they really wanted to create respect and dignity in the workplace, they would look to help each employee strengthen the quality of their non-work life.  If a person can have something to live for outside of the office and the paycheck, then they don't have to rely on the company to give them a sense of meaning.  Of course, this would necessarily threaten the top-down corporate hierarchy and business model that has been forced upon us since feudal times, for so long that it looks like the only viable approach.  And HR can't have that.  So, as I stared at the survey, I decided I couldn't complete it.  There was no reason to do it if I couldn't be honest, and it was a complete waste of time to try to fit in a contrarian philosophy into a 1" x 3" box that would be of no use to anyone.  I let the survey fall from my hand, onto the desk, and said, "Hey, Rick, what do you think of this thing?"  Rick sat on the other side of my cubicle wall.  He didn't say much, but he seemed to do his job well enough.  I didn't hear a reply, so I stood up to see if he had stepped away from his desk.

He was still there, staring at his computer screen.  "Rick," I said again.  "Hey..."  He didn't seem to hear me.  He was wearing headphones, and his eyes had glazed over, his mouth half open.  Was he asleep?  I glanced down at his desk, he had one hand resting on his keyboard, and the other hand was – What was up with his mouse?  There were chrome bands wrapped around his hand, coming from the sides of his mouse, keeping his hand firmly wrapped around it.  He clicked it, moved it to the left, but no, Rick wasn't moving the mouse, the mouse seemed to be dragging his hand to the left.  He let out a low wheeze, and I looked up at his face.  A thin line of spittle had escaped from the corner of his mouth, and was working its way down his chin.  That's when I noticed that his fancy in-ear headphones weren't actually in his ears.  They seemed to be more like plugs, and were fastened tightly to his head, just behind the jawbone, but just in front of his ears.  The black cylinders had small LED lights that flashed a dark red in a slow, repeating pattern.  The mouse moved again, jerkily, and the spit from Rick's mouth dripped onto his shirt.

I turned and made my way out of my cube, into the field, to get around to his side.  I lost sight of him as I got to the end of the row, but as I came back down the other side, I could see he was still there.  "Rick!" I barked at the back of his head, and then came up short as I saw the interior of his cube.  He turned around, eyes clear, no headphones, hands in his lap.  His mouse looked like just another computer device.  "Hey, what's up?" he asked.  "Sorry I didn't hear you before.  I guess I was just in the zone."  I couldn't speak.  The walls of his cube were covered with picture upon picture of those "cute" animal pictures.  Dozens of kittens, puppies, cartoons of infants with kites, baby chicks and baby seals, pandas, koalas, and all the rest, layered one on top of the other, hastily stapled into the fabric of the cubicle walls.  They were like scales on some kitsch-mad snake, overlapping each other.  Only someone, most likely Rick, had taken a black crayon and drawn a heavy, rough X on their faces and heads, obliterating them.  His entire cubicle had become a negation, a denial of self.  

I said something to Rick; I can't remember what, most likely something banal and nonsensical, and walked back to my desk.  I sat there for a minute, then picked up the phone and dialed a handful of numbers.

"Hi, it's me.  Let's go out and do something tonight."