Newgrounds.com — Everything, By Everyone.

---

Oh, dang! Thanks so much, guys!

---

"Minutes from October 3rd"

South Calville Cult of Tvalcheorp the All-Devouring Quarterly General Meeting
October 3, 2013
Churley Residence, 42 Mandrake Lane

Chair: Franklin Starling, High Prophet of Unremitting Misery

Agenda
1. Approval of the agenda
2. Report on progress towards the summoning of Tvalcheorp the All-Devouring
3. Assessment of possible hazards to South Calville Cult
4. Election of Curator of Forbidden Whispers
5. Other Business

Meeting called to order at 7:30 pm

1. Approval of the Agenda

MOVED BY Samantha Churley
SECONDED BY Robin Lao
CARRIED unanimously

Chair explained that the nomination and election of the Scribe of Forbidden Whispers must begin prior to 8:30, as Lao must leave by 9 in order to pick up his son from basketball practice, after which the meeting would return to unfinished agenda business.

2. Report on Progress towards the summoning of Tvalcheorp the All-Devouring

Chair introduced Danielle Farrington, Conductor of Spilled Entrails. Farrington noted that the South Calville Cult is, barring unforeseen setbacks or interference, on track for the eclipse of 2014. Bimonthly sacrifice of beasts of the land, air and sea in increasing size has thus far been: a spruce beetle, a goldfish, a vole, a robin, a squirrel, a garter snake, a seagull, a jackfish, a raccoon. Clarice Wiebe’s beagle was recommended for the next sacrifice, as it fits the size requirements and is nearing the end of its natural lifespan anyway. Wiebe opposed the recommendation, and the issue was taken to a formal vote.

MOVED BY Danielle Farrington
SECONDED BY Jeremy Williamson
CARRIED twelve to one

In addition, Thomas Rodenberg, Keeper of Broken Iron, announced that Rodie’s Scrapyard is continuing to acquire the requisite amounts of corroded metal, and Helen Gray has “plenty of sulfur available for the next blood sacrifice”.

3. Assessment of possible hazards to the Calville Cult

Chair introduced Malcom Churley, who had prepared a report on external threats to the cult. Churley noted that the cult’s visibility is increasing due to the eldritch corruption it has inflicted on the area. Occasional, unprovoked outbursts among children of, “It comes for you. It comes for us all. Tvalcheorp will sup on your flesh and dance upon your bones,” have already drawn the attention of one cigarette-smoking, overcoat-clad investigator of the paranormal. Churley remarked that the investigator has been largely quiet since his body was left in a cornfield for the rooks to feast upon, but outside suspicion is a growing concern. Further, Churley observed that a small group of teenagers has been regularly gathering outside his place of business, the South Calville Grocery Co-op, but he is unsure whether the group is a team of amateur sleuths or simply loitering.

Jeremy Williamson moved that Churley “refrain from such shameless self-promotion” and that all references to the South Calville Grocery Co-op be struck from the minutes. The movement was not seconded.

Chair and High Prophet of Unremitting Misery Starling then addressed the assembled, declaring that the greatest threat to Tvalcheorp’s rising comes from the weakness of our own hearts, and that to falter now, so close to the Great Arrival, would be unforgivable. He remarked that this weakness is what led the previous Curator of Forbidden Whispers to his current gibbering insanity, and announced that, from this meeting forward, the reader of The Terrible Revelation of Tvalcheorp (and Other Bedtime Stories) must change every week. In addition, the Curator of Forbidden Whispers cannot read from the Terrible Revelation, only record and curate the reader’s forbidden whispers. This is no longer a guideline. This is law.

MOVED BY Franklin Starling
THE HIGH PROPHET’S WORD IS ABSOLUTE
THE MOTION CARRIES

4. Election of the Curator of Forbidden Whispers

Chair noted his pleasure with the efficient running of the meeting thus far. Clarice Wiebe was nominated by Samantha Churley. Jeremy Williamson was nominated by Thomas Clough. Robin Lao was nominated by Helen Gray.

Votes in favour of Robin Lao: 7
Votes in favour of Jeremy Williamson: 3
Votes in favour of Clarice Wiebe: 10

Jeremy Williamson moved that the vote be stayed until next week, with the reasoning that sympathy for Clarice Wiebe’s dog biased the voting.

MOVED BY Jeremy Williamson
SECONDED BY Thomas Clough
OVERTURNED eleven to two

After this point, Robin Lao was took his leave.

5. Other Business

Danielle Farrington raised the issue that, to her knowledge, an unknowing sacrifice from within the Calville Cult has not been selected for the final ritual. She expressed concern that the choosing of the soul-key Tvalcheorp the All-Devouring will use to unlock the door to our reality may prove difficult to do in a fair and appropriately secret way. High Prophet of Unremitting Misery Starling demanded a return to order after a fit of embarrassed coughing. Thomas Clough moved that for simplicity’s sake, Robin Lao be sacrificed, as he was not witness to this portion of the meeting.

MOVED BY Thomas Clough
SECONDED BY Danielle Farrington
CARRIED unanimously

Malcolm Churley raised the possibility of calling forth chittering flesh-husks from the Realm of Festering Horrors to guard key locations and discourage loitering around the South Calville Grocery Co-op.

MOVED BY Malcom Churley
SECONDED BY Helen Gray
CARRIED eight to five

Reasearch into the feasibility and logistics of utilising chittering flesh-husks for this purpose is considered part of Clarice Wiebe’s duties as Curator of Forbidden Whispers.

Thomas Clough raised the possibility of wearing official cult regalia on Halloween or calling forth chittering flesh-husks to improve the quality of his planned haunted house. Five minutes of guttural screaming emanated from High Prophet of Unremitting Misery Franklin Starling. Thomas Clough retracted the motion.

The date for the next Quarterly General Meeting of South Calville Cult of Tvalcheorp the All-Devouring was set for January 4th, 2014.

It comes for you.
It comes for us all.
Tvalcheorp will sup on your flesh and dance upon your bones.

Richard Smith, Records-Keeper of Bureaucratic Sorrows

---

"Sab"
By Reptyle

Part One - The Summons

"There, we're totally dark wizards now."

We chuckled until Jeff's father rushed into the backlot. The man looked harried and scared and said, "Jeffery, thank God you're alright. Give your father a hug."

"Dad? What's going on?"

"It doesn't matter. Come over here, son."

Jeff took a step back.

"Alright, fine", said Jeff's dad. Then his jaw unhinged and he started screaming. His teeth were filed to points.

Still screaming, he produced a straight razor from his pants pocket and began to cut himself in a careful circle around his armpit and shoulder; first the right, then the left. When that was finished, he fished his fingers into the cuts and pulled the skin away with a grotesque peeling sound, taking his epidermis off like sleeves.

At some point during this process, his tongue popped out of his mouth and began to writhe on the ground by his feet. This did not, however, stop the screaming.

Having finished with his arms, the thing that was most likely not Jeff's father reached behind his head with the razor and, cutting to the bone, drew it in a perfectly straight line through his scalp until he met the bridge of his nose. Then he pushed his fingers into the cut again, scraping bone against bone, and this time slowly tore the skin of his upper body in half. Once the tear reached his hips, he stepped gingerly out if the rest of his skin.

The screaming stopped when the muscle-and-bone thing in front of us inexplicably caught fire. The smell of burning flesh wafted over the lot as the squirming tongue, arm-sleeves, and skin suit were consumed by the flames. His eyeballs boiled and burst, replaced with glowing embers as the flames faded.

After the conflagration died out, Not-Jeff's-Dad, still standing, reached up and re-hinged his jaw. While the rest of his body was charcoal gray and flaky, his teeth remained pearly white.

"Well, just what," Not-Jeff's-Dad asked the cowering teenagers before him, "in Hell were you expecting?"

Part Two - The Agreement

"I mean, probably not me, specifically, but you do a Satanic ritual, and you're gonna get something Satanic. Also, a pig's blood pentagram? Seriously?" His voice was high and cackling.

"Not a talkative bunch, are you? I guess I should inform you that I cannot leave the mortal plane until I have performed done task for those who have summoned me. So best hop to it, or you're going to be seeing a lot of me. Me and visions of your deaths. Jeffery, you seem like the idea man of the pack, got anything?" He tapped his foot, seeming to grow increasingly agitated with each second of silence.

After a fit of coughing and licking dry lips, Jeff started to smirk a little, his voice cracking, he said, "Scare Mr. Penworthy."

"Jeffery, there a lot of Mr. Penworthies in the world. Do you want me to pick one at random? Hunt 'em all down, Terminator-style? What?"

"James Penworthy. The one who lives in this city and teaches high school English. Don't hurt him, though."

"Don't hurt him? Jeffery, if it's going to be a good scare, someone has to get hurt. I don't do pranks; I'm not going to jump out of his closet and say 'BOO'. Give me something to work with."

"Don't cause him any physical harm lasting more than a day or two, can you manage that?"

"It's doable. There remains the issue of payment, however."

"Payment?"

"Did you think I worked for free, Jeffery? If so, you thought wrong. Although I suspect you didn't do much thinking at all; this whole escapade seems rather poorly planned on your part. That aside, how about your first-born son? A nice, classic agreement, by my way of thinking."

"No."

"No, Jeffery? Are you sure about that answer?" The embers in his eye sockets grew brighter.

"Not to scare a teacher, it's not worth it. And I'd rather not see you again later in life. Because you terrify me."

"Aren't you a little flatterer, Jeffery? And I do so love a man who's willing to haggle; it's a lost art in this day and age. You're quite right, I was being unreasonable earlier. I'll frighten poor Penworthy for that book of matches in your pocket. Agreed?"

"Y-yeah, sure."

"Excellent, I'll be off, then. Make sure you have the payment ready upon completion. It's good business manners, Jeffery. Remember that."

He started to walk towards a hole in the fence surrounding the lot, then stopped and turned his head 180 degrees.

"One last thing, Jeffery. I know you were making up your little ritual as you went along, but 'Black Sabbath drestl nth C'thullu' is an incredibly stupid name. Call me Sab from now on."

Part Three - The Fright

It's difficult to say exactly what Sab did to James Penworthy, but it most likely went something like this.

Penworthy might have noticed that his dog didn't rush to the door as he entered, but it's doubtful he thought much of it.

The first thing probably gave Penworthy the idea that something wasn't right was a series of sooty footprints on his carpet. He didn't call the police.

Whether Penworthy was following the footprints or not, when he turned on the light in his bedroom, he saw something resembling a charred corpse sitting on his bed, reading The Road and presumably laughing.

Penworthy might have had some kind of weapon on him; he might have tried to fight Sab. It certainly wouldn't have worked.

After the altercation that may or may not have happened, Penworthy was almost certainly presented with a clumsily stitched-together robe made from the freshly skinned hides of every dog on the street, with Penworthy's featured as the hood, and a burlap sack full of their heads.

It's most likely Penworthy was compelled to strip down to his underpants and don the blood-sticky robe.

It's uncertain what was said to Penworthy directly before he had his anxiety attack, but it is certain he phoned his children every Sunday until his death after the event.

The robe, the bag of heads, and the discarded remainder of the dogs were delivered to three separate houses in the neighborhood, all of them home to at least one child between the ages of four and six.

From one of these houses, an old Super Soaker was presumably taken.

Part Four - The End

Sab returned to the empty lot carrying a Super Soaker. Noticing the eyes on his acquisition, he said, "What? It's damned hard to find these where I'm from."

He didn't comment on the fact that over half of us had run away from the empty lot in the intervening hour or so. He just pointed the Super Soaker at Jeff and said, "You've got the matches, right, Jeffery?"

"Here."

Their hands touched briefly as Jeff handed over the little matchbook. He shivered.

"You lost out on this deal, Jeffery. You would have had a litter of daughters, but no sons for me to spirit away."

"I can always get some more. But why would you need matches in-"

Jeff was cut off by a blast from the Super Soaker to his face. He retched and coughed. Sab kept the squirt gun trained on him until the stream dipped down and trickled away.

"What the fuck's in there?" Jeff said, his eyes red and teary.

"Gasoline, mostly."

Sab casually lit a match and tossed it at Jeff. The gasoline caught fire with a low whoosh as Jeff collapsed to the ground, screaming.

"Told him he lost out. Toodle-oo, kids. I'll be seeing you all. Jeffery here a little earlier than most of you, of course. Have a happy Halloween!"

He left the way he came.

---

Thanks for the review; I found it quite helpful.

It started off pretty nice, but I think you were too blunt with the part about her being able to read minds. It would have been much more entertaining if the reader was given subtle hints first and then it was told that she could read minds.

I like this idea in particular.

The odd style of the narrative could suit this piece I think, but if I don't think it would work if you plan on expanding it, but that's just me.

I was planning on breaking the story up with segments in a more typical narrative style, probably third person following assorted people who come in contact with the girl. I think it'd calm the story down a bit and would perhaps be a good contrast.

And I'm guessing it ended with it just being a dream? Can't say I'm a big fan of dream endings, unless the story itself was more surreal.

Eh, not exactly what I was going for. The capital letters and bolded text indicate "commands" given unwittingly by the girl. Directly after the "STOP" appears, everyone around her stops in their tracks, essentially unconscious, and I tried to display this via the lack of "noise" and then the movement of uncontrolled cars and the like. After the "WAKE UP", everyone else would presumably wake up. Evidently this should be more obvious, but how should I go about this?

I can't say I'm a fan of "but it was all a dream" endings myself.

Except for perhaps Inception

But overall, I liked it. Good work, you should definitely try to write more as practice though!

Thanks!

---

Having not seen Thor myself, I might be missing something, but I'm not sure the transition to Pirates is especially intuitive. I was more expecting a reference to the case in Pulp Fiction than anything else.

As it seems to be pretty much entirely referential humour, I don't think it would have much staying power once those references are no longer topical.

The execution and mechanics are obviously very good, and I think the quality of the voice acting would make or break this script. With decent execution, I could see this in a daily top five, not too sure about weekly, though.

---

If possible, I'd like to get something from my thread here reviewed, especially the second post.

It's a very short (~600 words) piece of science fiction written from the perspective of a young girl who realizes she can read minds. The narrative style is somewhat chaotic; I was trying to convey the fear and confusion of the narrator. It's quite old, but I was interested in seeing if there was anything worth revisiting.

It's been mentioned a couple of times that one must review something in order to be reviewed, so point me towards something and I'll take a look at it.

---

You may be looking for this forum.

You should probably add some more detail to your pitch, like gameplay and art style, and a more detailed plot summary. And you should be willing to invest a fair bit of work or money, I doubt "this is a vague idea for a game, someone make it for me" is going to work very well.

---

So, I've sat on this story for awhile, not sure of what to do with it. I thought I'd see what people here thought of it, make changes/expansions from there. It was about my first time working with a very unfiltered stream-of-consciousness narrative style. Here is the story of...

"What Happened Last Tuesday"

Eyes open, everything is blurry but forward and up is bright, the rest is dark, cold. The ground is hard and gritty.

Vision slowly clears, surroundings take shape. An alley, brick and concrete. Garbage strewn about, bins nearby. Head hurts.

Stand up, dizziness hits, brace against the wall, stiff and sore. Head still hurts; pain emanates from behind the right ear. Reach up and there is metal poking out of the skin, a thin rod pointing upwards. It should not be there. From the mouth of the alley comes sunlight and the murmur of people.

Stumble out of the alley, blinking in the sunlight. The murmurs are louder now, seem deeper than sound. Doesn't make sense. Head hurts. A man walks past with a briefcase --

-- Off to my boring job again, three days to the weekend - car honking - oh look, it's my boss, waving at me with his two thousand dollar watch from his BMW, the --

-- Head hurts, eyes close in pain, someone else passes --

-- Apples, bread, milk, lettuce, some chicken maybe, and rice; ran out of rice yesterday, what else do --

-- The noise is from their heads, all of them. Why isn't it staying in their heads head hurts pain from metal thing that should not be there like noise should not be there hurts need to get away from all the noise getting louder need to get away run --

-- Some nice Ow! What the hell dropped my bag some kid bumped into --

-- Keep running --

-- Someone's in a hurry --

-- Run --

-- Grungy street kid knocks over that poor woman doesn't even apologize probably stole something stop her grab--

-- Grabbing move away but bump into someone else --

-- What's going whoa bumped into me what's going o --

-- Is it even a girl so dirty can't tell got it --

-- Caught can't move --

-- Why is he grabbing her she looks scared tell him --

-- And the boy is saying something and the man is saying something and the man is saying something but everything else just keeps getting louder so loud -

-- There's no reason --

-- None of his business --

-- Can't believe L.A. lost --

-- Damnitlatelatelate --

-- In the jungle, welcome to the jungle --

-- Needs to calm down --

-- Can't believe how rude --

-- New story sucks --

-- People arguing there --

-- Ngh, shouldn't have gone out last --

-- Just keep walking --

-- In a reasonable manner --

-- Condescending brat --

-- Nasdaq is down --

-- Can consider himself --

-- Looks about ready to --

-- Traffic is ridiculous --

-- Would you look at that --

-- STOP --

So quiet.

Head hurts less.

Nothing moving except for cars.

Why is nobody moving?

No more noise.

Everyone's head is blank.

They should not be blank, but it feels nice.

There is no more noise.

Then a crash.

And another.

Now alarms.

Sound car coming off the street toward boy; boy wanted to help move push him of the way of the car.

Car crashes driver bleeding boy bleeding he hit the ground after push his head is blank no noise coming from him.

No noise from anyone.

Are they dead?

Didn't want them to die.

Just wanted quiet.

So quiet now.

Don't want boy to be dead.

Don't want anyone to be dead.

Like the quiet but wish everyone would wake up.

-- WAKE UP --

---

Your writing seems somewhat confused. You've got elements of a script and prose here, and the overlap creates some confusion and redundancy, most obviously things like

MAX: "Several words", said Max.

You identify the speaker twice for the same line of dialogue.

Some the lines themselves are a bit clunky as well, especially the expositional bits like "Why are we standing outside this liquor store?".

You might also want to work on your characters a bit, they so far haven't done much to distinguish themselves from a fairly generic street tough stereotype.

Overall, though, this was a lot more coherent than your intro. You've got a clear flow of events and you managed to hold my interest for enough time to write a response.

---

I dunno, I prefer wet lukewarm carboard doused in ketchup myself.

---

Ah, poor Funk. I used to think you were rather clever.

---

As a bit of a writing exercise, I decided to put my iPod on shuffle and write something that reflects the theme and tone of the first song to play. The result is below. Feedback would be great; if anyone wants to do something similar that'd be cool too.

Up the Cuts
By Against Me!

I can't sleep. My eyes are dry and bloodshot from hours of staring sightlessly into the darkened room.

Given I'm not about to be getting much rest, there's probably a more interesting use of my time than tracing the same patterns in the lightless stucco above me. I roll out of bed, grab a t-shirt off the floor, and shamble into the living room.

I turn on the TV, and after some aimless channel surfing I find myself watching music. And here I thought they didn't play that anymore.

But maybe that's for the best. Maybe it's my state of state of dazed non-sleep at work but everything starts to meld together into a bland musical melange. There's a constant sense of deja vu, a feeling like I've seen and heard before things I couldn't possibly have. I haven't looked at this channel in months. I haven't paid much attention to the charts in years.

The cuts. That's it, the cuts in every single video of every single song are timed to the bass drum. BUMP we're looking at the lead singer with his mouth pressed so tight to the microphone it looks like he's trying to eat the thing. BUMP we're looking at the guitarist and he's staring down through shoulder-length hair at his fingers like if he lets up his concentration for a second he'll forget the three chords he's been playing the whole song. BUMP we're looking at the bassist, but he's boring us so BUMP we're looking at the drummer and he looks pretty bored himself but soon when he taps his foot for another BUMP, hey, there'll be some other thing to look at.

And I remember piles of articles about how digital piracy is tearing apart the music industry but if they do this, this and this and sue middle class twenty-somethings with computers for hundreds of thousands of dollars that'll finally fix things. And I think maybe they're forgetting that at some point you have to make something worth buying if you ever want people to pay for something. And that doesn't seem likely when the only thing the tv networks and the record companies and the big stores and the magazine will back is more of the same uninspired inoffensive soundalike bullshit passed off as music, but there's another BUMP and hey here's the lead singer again.

I finally drift off after an hour and a half of crushing sameness and I know tomorrow is not going to be a good day.

---

This looks extremely interesting. I'd like to see a sample of the art style you'll be using for this, I think it would give a great indicator of the overall tone.

I will say though, I might prefer the direction you had for the character before you worked in the murderous psychopath element. I quite like the idea of showing single-minded determination towards a goal as not necessarily as good as it's often portrayed by creating an alienating, almost deluded character, but I'm afraid that might lose some of its effect when the true goal is murdering someone with airborne artillery.

I'm not saying that the direction you seem to be heading will be bad, the character is still interesting and i like the style you seem ti be going for, but the result will probably be very different in scope from what I first read about.

---

Wow, sorry to Optimisticperson, I just realized how badly I screwed up the details of the attempted hit on Charlie.

---

Frank sighed. "Charlie, wait a second. He got out of Coppola Penitentiary at two o'clock Tuesday. One of the corrections officers might know where he should be. I'll do some digging."

"Thanks. But you really should lock your doors."

Five hours later, Robert Crawford heard a knock. He sauntered to the door of the halfway house, cracked it open and peered out.

"Hey, I'm a friend of Frank's. Looking for Rob."

"That'd be me."

Charlie shoved the door, striking Robert in the face. Robert stepped back and eyed Charlie as he entered, one hand wiping away the blood from the split skin of his forehead. As soon as Charlie got through the doorway, Robert lashed out, aiming for the padding of Charlie's wounded shoulder. The cop yelped and stumbled backwards, pulling out his gun before Crawford could make another move.

Robert raised his hands. He looked desperately for an escape route.

"Stay where you are."

"What's this about? I'm not connected to anybody anymore, I've been inside for years, I-"

"Shut up. I'm gonna tell you a story. Once upon a time, there was a man named Robert Crawford. Thought he was a real tough guy, called himself 'the Rail'. Worked for the biggest crime boss in the city. Well, one day Robert and a couple of his friends were sent to a little jewellery store to show the owner why he needed to pay the crime boss protection. A good, honest cop saw what Robert was doing and tried to stop him. But before the good cop's backup could get there, either Robert or one of his buddies shot the cop to death. And now Robert has ten seconds to tell me why I shouldn't kill him right now."

"Oh, Jesus Christ, you're Charlie Connery, aren't you? I wasn't part of that job, I had to leave town because the police had a warrant on me for assault and battery. I don't know who shot your brother, but it wasn't me."

"Yeah? Then who was on the job?"

"It was years ago, I don't," Charlie cocked the gun. "Doggs, Big Vinnie, and the guy who replaced me, I don't know who it was."

"One last question. I was shot in the chest today. Didn't see the guy, but he managed to hit me straight on. Can't have been too far away, the bullet came from some kinda handgun. Sound familiar at all?"

"Shit."

"Who was it, Crawford?"

"Sounds like a guy who calls himself Remo. His jobs have a tendency to get messy. Ever hear about the Detroit Three? That was him. If you're still alive, he's still after you, and everyone around you is in danger."

"Can't have anyone knowing where I've been, then, can I?" Charlie pulled the trigger. Robert's eyes widened in shock. He tapped his chest, surprise to find it intact.

"When they contact you, and they will, Jimmy doesn't just let a man go, you go to Frank and tell him what they told you, got it? Or next time this won't be a goddamn blank."

Robert Crawford gasped for breath as Charlie left the house.

---

After endless days of prison jumpsuits, the simple jeans and tee-shirt felt like silk against Robert's skin.

"I don't ever wanna see you here again, Crawford, got it?"

The guard received a noncommittal grunt in return as Robert took back the few personal belongings that had been kept by the state for the past seven years.

As he headed towards the exit, he wondered if anyone would be waiting for him. He thought that perhaps no one caring about him would be preferable to having the wrong people still interested in him. Like Jimmy. Or a particular cop that probably wouldn't be swayed by the word "former". Sean something? The name had gotten lost along the way, but Robert had definitely heard bad things about him.

The fact that Robert didn't have much in the way of what most people would consider legitimate work experience certainly wouldn't help the situation after he walked through those doors.

The mid-afternoon sun blinded Robert as he took his first steps as a free man.

---

On the off chance you're still taking characters, here's someone.

Name: Rob Crawford
Age: 29
Occupation: Former muscle, just released from a seven-year stint in jail.
Details: Nicknamed "The Rail" either for his skinny build or for breaking a man's arm against a staircase railing, depending on who you ask. May have been involved with the robbery that killed Charlie's brother, but nothing was ever proven. Jailed for aggravated assault, feels that the mob should have protected him after his arrest. Allegiance currently nebulous.

---

Most pharmacists where I live refuse to carry Oxycontin except on special order anymore because of the rather large quantity of addicts breaking in or robbing drugstores to get the stuff. Not good unless you need it, very easy to get addicted to.

---

At 11/14/10 11:28 AM, DJ-Keen wrote: But yeah I'm glad my folks are armed now, since you hear more and more about people getting mugged outside Walmart and shit nowadays.. especially women.

Guns don't protect you, armor does. You want to get your folks one of these

---

So much good taste on this thread

Also, I like:

Invincible
Brian K Vaughn's run on Runaways
Pyongyang
I'm surprised no one's mentioned American Splendour yet, I wasn't a huge fan myself, but a lot of people seem to like it.
Also Niel Gaiman and Dave McKean's Mr. Punch

---

Bahamut. Also, InsertFunnyUsername's been great on the writing forum.

---

Ash convulses one more time and then wakes up. Turns out it was all a hallucination he had during a seizure caused by his first encounter with pikachu and porygon. There is then a final season centering around his therapy and rehabilitation, but in the end Ash cannot cope with the idea that all his friends never existed, and proceeds to commit suicide.

---

I don't. Sleep is for the weak.

---

English, and I can generally understand French but I can't speak or write in it nearly as well.

---

At 8/11/10 11:15 PM, SineRider wrote: Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff

A thousand times this.

---

At 8/4/10 10:22 PM, KovioXZ wrote: If god isn't real then how come its a proven fact that the Earth is only 6000 years old?

God: 1
Athiests: 0

I see it now. I've been wrong for so long, but now this post has led me to finally give up my heathen delusions and accept Jesus Christ as my lord and savior!

brb, converting.

---

I never played dodgeball with anything more dangerous than foam. I don't know what the school was thinking in hiring them, but at one point gym class was being taught by a couple of old ladies who decided we were throwing those vaguely spherical chunks of foam too hard and that we should all have a nice sit-down.

I like the idea of playing actual dodgeball, though.

---

Personally ent out and bought? Probably Anerican Idiot.

---

A couple of random picks because I'm too lazy to make a list. I'm prepared for a nice helping of anger over the Againsts, and if I had to reccomend only one, it would probably be the Arkells right now.

The Arkells - Jackson Square
The White Stripes - Elephant
Rise Against - Revolutions per Minute
Against Me! - New Wave
Matthew Good - White Light Rock and Roll Review/Avalanche
Queens of the Stone Age - Songs for the Deaf
Titus Andronicus - The Airing of Grievances

---

Offer her your N95. Make whooshing noise when you pass it to her.

works every time