This may come as a surprise, but in those days there was also a phenomenon called "newspapers". They were paper-based, and were delivered to houses to inform subscribers of news. Think of it as a stack of printed CNN.com pages. My memory does fade over the years, but to the best of my recollection there were also a few of them in the German language. The offices where such "newspapers" were being made kept in contact with each other and other sources of information by crude forms of email, called "fax" and "telegraph". The speed of information transfer by those devices came close to the speed of Light. As did another revolutionary method of disseminating information across the globe: radio. Think of it as an audio form of youtube. It was often used to quickly tell everyone of weird things. Libraries were a little bit slower, granted. But since they were just the predecessor of Google, it's not surprising.

databooger posted:
I've been lurking here for quite a long time, but just paid $10 to post on this. Why? I've never paid money to post anywhere before, and never thought I would. Because I guess I've been Guy, I've also been on the other side of this. And although I know I'm nobody to anyone involved, I imagine that I've got some sort of insight into this situation which might help.

First of all, Huntersoninski, I don't think you're a bad person. On the other hand, I don't think everything you've done here is right. I'm not going to advise you to do anything specific, and I strongly feel that you should take your time before doing anything else at all.

Some really, horrifyingly awful ideas have been floated in this thread. Going to the police, for example. If you're arguing with someone, using the law as a way to get the last word is childish and wrong. Call if a crime happens. Call at any other time, you're the one in the wrong, regardless of what the judge says. We're the #1 prison country already, don't be involved. Don't employ the BF as a weapon either. It isn't fair to him. Or anyone, really. Other people should not have to fight each other at your wishes. Want a weapon, buy a gun. Don't use a human being. I know it wasn't YOU who suggested these ideas. But I just want to quickly disparage them before going on.

Like I said, I've been in Guy's situation. Let me tell you how he feels about you.

Guy admires you, wants to be your friend, he sees something in you that might make you a good friend for him. You do not see this in yourself, in fact you're completely clueless as to what about you Guy might like, besides simply using your body for his lust, or fantasies about Guy being a serial killer. But Guy sees something in you! You won't know what it is, because you won't let Guy tell you. And I don't know what it is, because you don't know and therefore can't tell me. But trust me, there's something admirable about you to Guy. Your self-esteem is low, your self-image is not accurate, and that's why you cannot see it. You and Guy probably do have a lot in common, and whether or not you ever communicate with him again, you might want to consider accepting this.

Guy also imagines, in a half-conscious way, that you are somehow key to his isolated situation. Guy may want more out of you, he may not, you simply do not and can not know. It has been suggested that Guy is a master of manipulation, waiting to sneak his way into your life. I do not think he is. Guy simply has the strange idea, or feeling that never quite makes it to the level of an idea, that you have something to do with the social environment around him. And that, were you to accept him as a person worth interacting with, everything would change. That somehow your coldness towards him relates to other coldness he receives, and that somehow you could change it by accepting him.

And guess what? Guy is RIGHT! He's clueless about a lot, but he is totally correct about this. You've been going around telling everyone about how horrible Guy has been. His professors, all your mutual acquaintances, desk security people, anyone but Guy. You did this before even confronting Guy, you've been doing this for years. Guy does not know this. But Guy does sense his social environment tightening, people looking at him differently, and that you are a focus of it all. In a sense, you're Guy's enemy. A serious one. An enemy who sees every attempt to sue for peace as justification for more backhanded attacks. You're Guy's enemy every bit as much as he is yours. In fact, more so. For despite his nuisance behavior, Guy almost certainly has never done anything to harm you, whereas you have actually done something to harm him. Reputations do matter. You have harmed his.

Why doesn't Guy come up to you and talk to you in the presence of your friends? Because they undoubtedly are hostile towards him. So he comes up to you alone to ask you what's going on. You know, but you won't tell him at all.

Guy sees your coldness and it bothers him. He knows that it's something you're putting on, that underneath you aren't really a bitch. He senses that you are troubled by something and that's why you're such a bitch, and he worries about you. Guy doesn't know that the problem is really him. And . . . is the problem really him? Or are you projecting something else onto him? Often people don't like to face the real problems in their own lives. Poor Guy. Poor you.

You feel uncomfortable around Guy. He gets your neck hair up. You would like to get rid of Guy because of it. Your feelings of discomfort should be respected, yes. But they shouldn't be given too much respect. Take a look back in history, at 4 young Salem girls named Betty Parris, Abigail Williams, Ann Putnam, and Beth Hubbard. They felt uncomfortable about quite a few local men and women. Their wishes were backed by the gallows. That's - a bit too much respect for their feelings, isn't it? There is a middle ground here, that's all I'm trying to say.

It's interesting that you cannot point out a single bad characteristic of Guy other than his clumsy manner of approaching you. You have never made any effort to get to know Guy. If you had done so, the situation might be entirely different. It's just a feeling, a feeling you get and can't explain. And is it right? It might be correct. But it might be wrong. There is a chance Guy might hurt you or kill you. But it's a small chance. I don't know, do you drive? Eat rare meat? Heck, even the X-Rays from a CRT could give you cancer. Life is composed of risks, and in the end, the risk of death approaches 100%. Nobody can live a risk-free life. Not you, not Ralph Nader, not anybody. So live well, not fearfully.

Now - how do I feel about the other side of this situation? Yes, I've had socially awkward people of both genders sorta sneak up and decide they're my friend. And yes, I have not always treated them well in the past, although I have never gotten into bad-mouthing or making legal threats. I'm just too anti-social and anti-authoritarian myself to do anything like that. I have, however, rearranged my schedule to avoid people when that really wasn't the right thing to do. But these days, I do try to react with compassion and openness, and do my best to allow friendship to happen. It doesn't always. Sometimes an unhappy person might just want someone to listen to her talk for 20 or 30 minutes, give her a hug and tell her she'll get through it, and that's it, that's all, back to friendly waves and how-ya-doin every now and then. It's okay. I really don't mind doing that, it doesn't cost me much. I'm not so stingy about my time. I've only got so many minutes to live, like I said, might as well use them.

There's a real connection between you and Guy. It takes 2 to play this game. He's not really a villain, and you aren't really a helpless victim. You're both playing roles, and you both can stop. Think about this for a while before you do anything else. You might really learn something about yourself from this. It might not be exactly welcome to you at this exact moment. But in the end, it just might make a real difference.

And if some years from now you and Guy and your BF and who knows who else are all sitting around drinking a few beers and just talking about how the world's all going to hell these days and wasn't college such a blast - well - stranger things have happened. They really have.

Good luck.

Are you locked up in a world that's been planned out for you?
Are you feeling like a social tool without a use?
Scream at me until my ears bleed,
I'm taking heat just for you.

And if some years from now you and Guy and your BF and who knows who else are all sitting around drinking a few beers and just talking about how the world's all going to hell these days and wasn't college such a blast - well - stranger things have happened. They really have.

Preface: My wife and I have three cats. Actually, to be completely accurate; I have one cat, my wife has one cat, and we share the burden of the third.

Part One:


Two years ago, our house was invaded by mice. Our three cats dealt with the vermin swiftly and severely, and the invasion was over before the mice could grab a foothold.

During that time I saw a most brutal and magical thing.

My cat, KiKi, was de-clawed when we adopted her. The removal of her factory equipment has resulted in her being a little less than graceful and (obviously) not as well-armed or aggressive as our other cats. This disadvantage didn’t stop her from performing her feline responsibilities, though.

Coming out of the shower one morning, I heard a thumping coming from the third bedroom. I walked to the bedroom and saw KiKi standing face-in to the far corner of the room. I thought that she had heard the same thumping that I had, and had come to investigate the sound. Just as I was stepping through the doorway into the bedroom, though, KiKi reared up onto her hind legs and brought her front paws down forcefully onto the floor. Thump!

“What are you doing?” I said.

KiKi hadn’t noticed me watching her. As she turned to face my voice, she revealed a mostly-broken and barely alive mouse in the corner. Lacking claws, she had stomped the mouse to death. What a good cat.

“Gross,” I said. “Good girl.”



Part Two:

Last year around this time, we were set upon again. The mice, apparently learning from their tactical mistakes the previous year, sent in a lone scout to perform recon in advance of their primary forces.

A solitary mouse should not last very long in a house with three cats. Either this mouse was very charming or very lucky, though, because he tormented my wife and me for a full four days before he met his overdue end.

The occasional squeak, scratch, or blurred, fleeting glimpse would alert me to his presence. Every morning I looked forward to finding the mouse crushed and bleeding or, worst-case-scenario, catch a faint whiff of rot that I could use to track down his hidden corpse. Day after day I anticipated his grisly murder, but was disappointed every night when I would hear or see evidence of his continued survival.

Knowing there was a mouse in the house, it was impossible for me to sleep soundly, so on the third night of the invasion I slept on the couch with an old air-rifle on the floor next to me. I fell asleep just after midnight with the television on. A little less than four hours later, I awoke from a dream about a mouse squeaking.

Awake, I heard the sound of a mouse squeaking.

The living room was dimly lit by the television screen, and in the blue light I saw Jake, my wife’s cat, sitting in the center of the room. I grabbed the rifle from the floor and eased myself up towards the lamp.

I switched the lamp on and the sudden light stung my eyes and I blinked, hard, waiting for them to adjust. Between blinks, I could see Jake the cat. He was squinting and blinking, too. He wasn’t alone. He had a new friend.

My vision cleared quickly, but my mind was still a little fuzzy. It was 4:00 in the morning, after all, and it took me a few seconds to understand what I was looking at. Jake the cat was sitting on the floor, looking down at the mouse, and the mouse was sitting on the floor, in the exact same posture, looking up at Jake. They each seemed to be trying to figure out what exactly they were seeing, and were now studiously ignoring me. It was a sight right out of a children's book.

“What the fuck are you doing? Kill the fucking mouse!”
I remember that this is what I said, aloud, to the cat. Verbatim.

None of us moved. For just one minute in time, it was Four o’clock in the morning and I was shirtless, holding a rifle and talking to my cat. Jake the cat was steadily making best friends with a mouse, and a little brown mouse held sway over us all.

The spell broke. I cocked the air-rifle and drew a bead in on the mouse. I knew that the rifle was sighted in at twenty yards, but I didn’t know how much difference the change in distance would make. I aimed a little low and squeezed the trigger.

In the middle of the night in a quiet house, the report from an air gun sounds as loud as a bus crashing. The CRACK of the rifle startled Jake very badly and he pinwheeled his legs for a moment, scrambling madly for purchase on the hardwood floor, before he gained traction and ran into the bedroom. A small splinter of wood exploded from the floor below the mouse’s head before he, too, disappeared to find a quieter place to spend the evening. I was left alone in the living room with my ringing ears and my bad aim.

The next day, Jake the cat seemed wary of me. I don’t know if he thought I was trying to shoot him the night before, or if he was angry that I had tried to murder his new friend. Either way, he kept his distance from me all night, and when I fell asleep on the couch he was nowhere to be seen.

A few hours later, a scratching woke me again. Following the sound, I turned on the light above the stairs that led to the first floor. Halfway down the steps, Jake and the mouse were standing on the same stair, looking at each other.

A midnight liaison. A sordid affair. I was embarrassed on Jake’s behalf.

“It ain’t natural,” I murmured as I aimed my rifle at the mouse. I couldn’t live another day with the nagging failure of the previous night’s marksmanship. Jake was standing very close to the mouse, though, and I worried that a ricochet might hurt the cat. I took a small step to the right to get a clearer shot, and my shifting weight made the floor creak suddenly and loudly. The noise spooked Jake and he bounded down the stairs three at a time. The mouse, however, froze.

I had the shot.
I took the shot.



Part Three:

I keep a clean house. Tidy.

When something is out of place, I notice.

When I got home from work yesterday, the clock and soap dispenser that I keep on the sill above the sunk were knocked over. I have always discouraged the cats from climbing on the tables and countertops, but for them to explore while we’re at work isn’t unheard-of. I chalked it up to curious cats and forgot about it.

After dinner, my wife and I were in the living room watching “Burn after Reading”.

The oldest cat, Bear, likes to hang out on the balcony. I had let her out before dinner and while watching the movie, I thought I heard her scratching at the door to be let in.

Jake and KiKi were relaxing in the living room with us.

“Did you let the bear in?” I asked my wife.

“Yes”.

“Who’s that scratching?” I asked.

“Mmm” Said the wife. I translated this to mean ‘Shut up. I’m watching a movie’

I stood up to see what the scratching sound was. Walking into the kitchen, I saw what appeared to be a cat run from one side of the room to the other, near the stairs. I would have assumed it was Bear, but it was the wrong color.

‘Holy shit! The neighbor’s cat got into the house!’ was my first thought.

The creature had run around the corner and down the stairs before I could catch up with it. I switched on the lights as I rounded the corner to the stairway.

It wasn’t the neighbor’s cat.

“Holy shit! There’s a fucking squirrel in the house!” I yelled.

“WHAAAT!?” -Wife.

“Look!” I pointed down the stairs at the squirrel, just as he rounded the corner into the studio and out of sight.

I wasn’t sure what to do. The old pellet gun would only injure a squirrel. I didn’t want to hurt him. I wanted him either completely dead or outside, unhurt. The next most powerful gun I have is the 9mm, and (as fun as it sounds in theory) I’m not going to run through my house squeezing off 9mm rounds at a damn rodent.

I followed the squirrel into the studio, turning on the lights as I went. I just caught a glimpse of a fuzzy tail rounding the bend into the basement stairway when my wife shouted down the stairs, “What are you going to do?”

I had to be honest, “I don’t know.”

The studio has a big double-door that opens to the sidewalk and street. I propped the doors open before heading down into the basement. I thought that I might be able to chase the squirrel back up the stairs and through the studio doors. It was cold and raining, but I hoped that I wouldn’t have to leave the doors open for long.

I switched the basement lights on from the first floor.

My basement is big. 1000 square feet. Like most people, we have our share of boxes, old clothes, tools, paint, and the miscellaneous accumulations of the years all stored in the basement. I wasn’t looking forward to tearing through dozens of boxes and shelves to find the rodent, but I wasn’t going back upstairs without getting rid of the squirrel. I knew I couldn’t trust the damned cats to do anything about him. He was the same size as any one of the cats, plus he had the benefit of not being a tamed and coddled pussy.

As I descended into the basement, I heard a rustling and metallic clanging near the furnace. Our furnace is a 1970’s jobber. Loud, rusty, and massive. It (along with the water-heater) vents the exhaust through the old chimney that sits behind it. For some reason, there is a metal trap-door into the chimney that, for as long as I’ve owned this house, has been closed. It’s cob-webby back there and frankly, pretty creepy. It’s hard to get light back there, and the old metal trap-door looks like something out of a horror movie. Something that, if you were watching someone on-screen reaching towards it, you’d think, “Why the hell are you opening that? Leave it alone”. I always just left it alone. I’m a man who listens to his horror-movie-voices.

Well, the door was hanging open. The squirrel obviously got in that way, and he was now using it as his exit. I heard scratching inside, though I couldn’t see in. I reached behind the furnace and slammed the creepy door closed, then pulled a five-gallon bucket of paint in front of the door to make sure he wouldn’t use it again.

Back upstairs, my wife has the house pretty much turned upside-down. It seems that the squirrel had been in the house all day, and had taken to pooping and pissing pretty much everywhere. She was busy cleaning squirrel waste. Something that, on our wedding day, I specifically told her she’d never have to do. She thanked me for getting rid of the squirrel and I stepped out onto the balcony to have a smoke.

While smoking, I heard the furnace kick on. I pictured the squirrel climbing up through the chimney and a thought struck me. Why hadn’t he climbed out earlier? At some point in the day, that rodent found himself trapped in huge house for the better part of eight hours with three natural predators. Yet, when I started chasing him around, he made a b-line for the chimney door.

The only answer that I could think of was that he might not be able to climb out of the chimney. He fell down it, and then couldn’t get back up. If that’s the case, he might already be dead from the CO that’s running through the chimney, assuming he’s in the part that vents the gas. If he’s still alive, I’m going to have to get him out of there. Hell, I have to get him out either way. Shit. Stupid squirrel.

I guess, as it stands right now, this little story doesn’t really have an ending. To be completely honest, I just wrote this because it’s all I’ve been able to think about since I got to work. So, we’ll see what the situation is when I get home.

I guess I’ll have to open that scary door.

Whoa! Looks like we’ve hit quintuple overtime, Faunis! I mean, BOOM! That snuck up on me. I mean here I was, having a heart attack from that third turducken and BOOM! We’re way into overtime. I mean, quintuple overtime. You just don’t see that any more, Faunis, cause that’s the fifth overtime, and that means they’ve had four more overtimes before that. I mean, that’s a lot of time .

But who wants to see five overtimes? I mean, every game should only need one overtime, because that’s all it takes for Brett Favre to win it. You may not think that, because Brett Favre isn’t even on the teams here, but usually when there’s an overtime, Brett Favre wins it, because he’s Brett Favre and that’s what he does.

So, instead, we’re gonna take you to a new game in progress. The webcomic called Pandaking. You’d think there would be a space, but there isn’t, and I mean, I’ll get to that in a minute, but before that, we’re already off to a bad start. I mean, first they call in a “Web Manga”. I mean, what’s a manga? It’s just a comic, except you use a word that sounds like mango, except it’s not a mango because mangos taste kind of good and mangas really don’t. I mean, it’s the same with this one, tastes awful. But lets get right down to the action!



See, I mean, this is what I was saying earlier. See this circle at the top here? That’s where the space should be, but it isn’t, so there’s no space. I don’t really know what a Pandaking is. I mean, it’s almost got “duck” in there, and ducks taste good, especially when they’re inside a turkey and outside a chicken, but this isn’t a duck and its not inside a turkey or a chicken, so it doesn’t taste good. And, if that weren’t bad enough, he moves down to the face, and makes a bad Fu Manchu maneuver. I mean, this guy looks like the Mandarin fused with, I mean, Fu Manchu. I mean, I spiffed him up a little by giving him a better mustache and some pupils, but I can only do so much.

Bottom line, though, that’s just not a good play to run on first down. But, if you move down the page, you see why he called that: he’s running a weaboo offense. See, it’s suppose to say “One” down there, cause it’s in English, and if something’s in English, I mean, you’d think it would speak English, but instead it’s using another Japanese word for one, just like manga instead of comic. I mean, right on the first drive, we’ve got penalty flags all over!



Things don’t get better anytime soon for the Pandakings when they try this classic “wall of expository text play”. I mean, that worked back in fifth grade on the playground, but you can’t try that in the pros. Of course, the defense doesn’t even have to do anything on this play, because it’s getting called back anyway for poor writing. See, laws can’t be “lorded over” in someone’s name, because they’re laws. I mean, lording over is for people, and carrying out is for laws. You lord over people, you carry out laws, you don’t carry out people and lord over laws. I mea – whoa! Time out! There’s a Princess of Babes here. I mean, I think he means babies, but, I mean, wouldn’t that be something? If there were a Princess of Babes, could she command hot babes to make out with each other? I mean, I’d go make myself the Prince of Babes, and she’s not even Brett Favre! I mean, I still might do that because look at those knockers! BOOM! Now that’s a safety – two points! Kinda got a funny name, though. I mean, Procuni kind of sounds like pork. Maybe the knockers are made of pork? BOOM! I need to eat another Turducken.

Anyway, he keeps trying to run the wall of text play, but gets another bad writing penalty here. Her thirst is staining the estate! I mean, wow, I wouldn’t want this chick thirsty in my house! I’d be getting her a glass of water every five minutes. I’ve got expensive carpet. I mean, I wouldn’t invite her anyway, cause she’s clearly showing blitz. See that right there? That’s a glass of wine, and you know that means she’s evil! The good guys never drink wine. I mean, it’s a fact, cause Brett Favre doesn’t drink wine and he’s goodest good guy ever! He brings peace of life to all people, whatever peace of life means.

But, I mean, this wall of text play just isn’t going to work, even with that text spin move at the bottom of the page. You’re not gonna fool a pro linebacker with that, especially if you’re reading right to left. I mean, I know the Pandakings run a weaboo offense and that’s how it’s run, but you can’t read English right to left! Otherwise words like “Brett Favre” become “Ervaf Tterb,” and that’s not Brett Favre!



Well, it’s the third quarter, and the Pandakings haven’t changed their gameplan. They’re still trying wall of text plays, and I mean, that’s just not gonna work. They’ve toned them down a little, but still a lot of penalties. Princess of Babes is still working for them, I mean, I still want to be the prince, but they forgot the boobs this time. I drew them in for them. Then, we’ve got another weaboo related penalty in the top right corner! Random Japanese symbols are totally illegal, that’s a fifteen yard penalty. Big mistake. That’s gonna – whoa! Is that the number 61? 61.8 is Brett Favre’s career completion percentage! I mean, wow, that’s amazing that Brett Favre can do that, just shows you why he’s Brett Favre. That’s a big play for the Pandakings. Invoking Brett Favre has put them in the red zone, they could get on the board! But oh, another writing penalty. They’re gameplan says to free the people of Emor and crush the vampire queen’s servants, but it says earlier that the people are Porktitty’s servants! Are they going to free and crush the people at the same time? That’s a gutsy play, but I don’t think it’s gonna work.

And, whoa, what’s this? Henry the Third is in the game? That’s bad news for the Pandakings. I mean, I assume by King Henry, they mean Henry Jones, the former pro-bowl defensive back for the Buffalo Bills, and I don’t think the Pandakings have an answer for him…but wait, what’s that at the bottom? Elinee…Linee…line! Offensive line! BOOM! Wow, what a play! They’re countering Henry Jones’ outside blitz with a shift in their offensive line! That’s two good playcalls this quarter for the Pandakings! They’re still down 49 to -6 but, I mean, it’s the spirit that counts.



And we’re here in the fourth quarter, where things have started to once again get worse for the Pandakings. First of all, they’ve got a player with illegal equipment. Those square shoulder-pads aren’t regulation, and I mean, if it’s not regulation, that means it’s against the regulations, which is illegal. Same thing goes for those square arm guards. He’s not gonna get away with it no matter how much he bolds and underlines the text, even with exclamation points.

I do like the exclamation point strategy, though. I mean, it’s better than the wall of text, and when you’re yelling, you’re talking louder than you’re speaking, so people can hear you better. I do it all the time! Still, I don’t think he’s used enough, here. If you’re going to use the exclamation point offense, you need to go all out. I’ve added a few in spots where he needs it. Also, since everyone has a mustache in this web mango, I’ve helped make it more consistent.

Well, it wasn’t a good day for the Pandakings. They’re not Brett Favre, but at least they acknowledged it. After a really bad try at a joke play, they at least acknowledged how bad they played with that last, derisive “HAH[!]” That’s good sportsmanship. You’ve gotta applaud that.

The Overly-Long-Named-and-Incredibly-Redundant-Title-Which-Serves-Only-to-Make-Me-Seem-Important, Or: A Spanish Conquest AAR, or: How I learned to play multiplayer and not instantaniously collapse like a flan in a cupboard.


Oh, hello, I didn't see you there. I was too busy being important.

That's right, I am Spain, king of Castille, Lion of Leon, Duke of Aragon, Konig of Portugal and Ruler of Iberia. Fat Merchant of Ferrara, Sheep-herder of Sardinia, Roi du Savoi, Overlord of Liguria, Holder of Corsica, Sultan of North Africa, Emir of Morocco, Defeater of Pajamas, Alexandre of Alexandria, Pharaoh of Cairo, Conqueror of Worlds and Leading Lead Man in the hit reality series "What's Wrong With This Guy?!"

I have come here for a single purpose. And that is, for the revenge of the retaliation of the things which are important because of self-sacrifice, and then there was fire.