Really, the best decription of gaming I've heard since the Buffy finale....
Aimee, in Bitches:
You testosterone-filled gaming freaks (totally kidding) are going to invade my home, eat my food, yell at my dog and make Trading Spaces unhearable because you are trying to get the rodent dwarf with simsense out of the magical trunk and transported back to the Van Nuys airport without awaking the goblin dogs the mage managed to accidentaly pull out of Atlanta when the 5 of you were astral projecting to get the briefcase from the Elf Fairy that was sitting on a nuclear cloud somewhere over Los Angeles in 2876.
In Natter (who needs context?):
Sophia Brooks: and now I feel really bad because everyone else is mad!
DavidS: Well... Fuck 'em. For fuck's sake, it's not like you stole the myrhh from Baby Jesus. I expect you'll come swanning into the office in your ermine coat now, just back from a weekend at St. Tropez in your personal Lear Jet. Ooh la la. Then again, maybe you won't have to sweat your rent check when you have to change the oil on your car.
May be a bit subtle, but this link, posted by Daniel in Press, deserves mention here.
It's about the death of David Brinkley, newscaster for NBC and ABC. The link is to CBS.
Yes, my little in-joke to myself. ABC-NBC-CBS...Didn't think anyone would notice.
Ah Buffistas...
Holli in Natter, on the question of the meaning of the word "Blaggard":
It's the sort of thing usually preceded by "Avast, ye" and followed by a bunch of "arrr"s.
Because Madrigal's Funny. In Natter:
I'm still trying to figure out the odor issue. There are so many young'uns on the east side who rebel against good music and bathing, and get their blonde hair conrowed and their ears disked and who are continually wearing their Phish T-shirts, it almost makes me prefer the proselytizers who sit next to me on the bus. At least, they listen when God tells them to take a shower.
Deborah and thessaly in Natter:
I'll infiltrate them in a cloche
I'll sip Pernod, and throw la roche
I'll infiltrate them all! You'll see!
I do not like the bourgeois!
I do not like them down the hall.
I do not like them at the mall.
I do not like our culture's fall.
I do not like them much at all!
Obviously, Sam I Am, we have no choice but to abandon this pedestrian rhyme scheme and throw off the shackles of our opressors while living in small, drafty apartments and staging street theater.
Alas, I can only claim credit for the concept and first couplet. Thessaly did the rest, all by herself.
Jars, in Un-Americans, on the
Buffy
finale:
Cheers. Apparently I'm filling the Buffy-shaped hole in my life with salt and vinegar crisps, of which I've just eaten 4 packets.
What am I supposed to do with my Thursday nights from now on? I'll have to take up a new hobby like crocheting, or maybe I could join a church group.
See the trouble watching Buffy has kept me out of in my teenage years? I could be a manic, knitting, bible-bashing recluse, instead of the fine upstanding cynic of an atheist that I am today. Society owes Buffy a debt.
