Mr. Xyzzyggr's page

Hey. At least the book doesn't have any nipples. Because, you know, the enlightened nation of USA can handle disembowelment, decapitation, defenestration and Native American Cannibal Zombies, but nipples ? Nah, that would be *really* horrible.

Each night I stare up at the pinks of the Areola Borealis and dream of home.

Now I understand. The thread is what it isn't, and that conundrum breeds worship.

Your people fascinate me.

Vic Wertz wrote:

All,

Please take it easy with the enthusiasm. We don't want to have to raise the ceilings of the Paizo offices to accomodate Logue's swelled head.

Duh? Since when can Robot Heads swell? I thought it was agreed that the all the Logues are Robots?

Am I wrong? Are they clones? OR something more sinister?

::pulls his plug from the wall and lurches forward into a serpentine, frantically confused ambulation::

I am one of the Logue League. Submit to good fiction! Resistance is... just plain dumb! Exterminate! Exterminate!

Play 4th edition now! (on the Playstation 3)

And you thought the day of the Omega Culmination would never descend.

A great schizm is on the horizon. Choose wisely because it will be the last choice you make. One of our home worlds was reduced to a whirling husk of ash in space when we were hit by a similar change in war game editions. If you have a god, pray to it, and...

Beware...

Beware...

I fear the rest of you... and the path you walk unknowingly.

I don't want crappy meta-plot, I don't want to adventure to find the lost underwear of Zygoxx Gygggix

He's my cousin. Give his underwear a chance.

Mr. Zyrxog. Hmm... interesting name.

My brain is a terrifying and alien place. Much like the Abominations of the Far Realm, my synapses are freakish enough to be untroubled by such mental assaults.

Unfortunately, this means I tend to be pursued by the whitecoats a lot. Something about needing my medication. The fools! I shall CONSUME this world one day!

I hear that.

The Jade wrote:

Where do you get this stuff?!

As your uncontrolled evil alias, I think you would know better than I...

And here I thought I was the only one.

Your course is set. The lights are lit. From here you are on your own. I wish you luck, humans. There is no warren deep enough... there are no fortress walls strong enough. Face it and accept. There is nothing to solve. Merely endure and rebuild with what is left you.

The Omega Culmination has come to absorb its first.

::Mr. Xyzzyggr whirls in place, as a frenzied dervish in mad pirouette. His velocity increases until he is but a florid blur that fades softly into the polarized glow of the gloaming. And like shadows so often do, he is gone the moment you look away and back::

Or are we a mere three pages from the court of paradise? The knowing is in the doing. The waste is in the ruing.

It begins.

I mean to say, those and that which play command performers on that day will step onstage for the first time, having never had a lesson or been given a script. A colossal lupine may just wind up being a man who is a complete letch. Anything is possible.

Keep your minds blank and prepare for your crucial performance.

Take your places.

And the wolf that comes to devour the sky?

Fenrir is the photo negative of the order of things. He is a fruitfly in the gloaming, lost and late but too invisble to ask directions home.

Do their tongues taste the coming fruit on the air,
As Surtr finishes that sword?

All eschatologies share the same root, though their poetic leaves are as varied and fantastic as the rainboll weevil cloudswarms of Privilon Four.

Your Surtr is fashioning something.

iPhone and apple stock nearing the $200 mark-2 more signs of the impending Omega Culmination....oh yeah, and the increasingly frequent births of 2-headed walruses...with great cleave as a free feat....coocoocachoo

And so the jackals turn their narrow heads to the sky, aware, even in their animal logic, that something is coming. This is the wisdom of jackals. Watch them for the time, but trust not the direction of their futile scampering. The Omega Culmination must be faced, for better or worse.

I think I'm in love with Mr. Xyzz. He writes like a really cheesy DC super villain and has an avatar to match.

Why does this thread exist? Why do any of us exist?

And that's about as existential as I'm gonna get...

Your honesty and kindness are exceeded only by your intuitive genius, Phil. L. On the day when sons go dim and the sun itself outlives the father, then shall you ascend the inverted pyramid of Zarn and give instruction to mankind's huddled remainder.

Here begins the Omega Culmination

Pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis!

That's just good old pneumoconiosis, black lung disease, trying to one-up antidisestablismentarianism. Once we start including made up words we have rush past Mary Poppins and her frivolous Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious and delight at the brilliance of James Joyce's 100 letter thunderwords in Finngegan's Wake:

The hundredletter thunderwords of Finnegans Wake
Jorn Barger Feb 2000

"There are ten thunders in the Wake. Each is a cryptogram or codified explanation of the thundering and reverberating consequences of the major technological changes in all human history. When a tribal man hears thunder, he says, 'What did he say that time?', as automatically as we say 'Gesundheit.'" -- Marshall McLuhan

"It took months of concentrated effort to begin to winkle out the thousands of words in the thunders; now, several of them have yielded thirty or more pages of words, each word denoting or alluding to a theme in the episode or an associated technology. Prior to our discovery of the thunders and their significance, Marshall McLuhan looked up to Joyce as a writer and artist of encyclopedic wisdom and eloquence unparalleled in our time.... After, he recognized in Joyce the prescient explorer, one who used patterns of linguistic energy to discern the patterns of culture and society and technology." -- Eric McLuhan [cite] [Amazon]

FW003 (thunder):
bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnsk awntoohoohoordenenthurnuk

FW023 (thunder):
Perkodhuskurunbarggruauyagokgorlayorgromgremmitghundhurthrumathunaradidilli faititillibumullunukkunun

FW044 (clap):
klikkaklakkaklaskaklopatzklatschabattacreppycrottygraddaghsemmihsammihnouit happluddyappladdypkonpkot

FW090 (whore):
Bladyughfoulmoecklenburgwhurawhorascortastrumpapornanennykocksapastippatapp atupperstrippuckputtanach

FW113:
Thingcrooklyexineverypasturesixdixlikencehimaroundhersthemaggerbykinkinkank anwithdownmindlookingated

FW257 (shut the door):
Lukkedoerendunandurraskewdylooshoofermoyportertooryzooysphalnabortansportha okansakroidverjkapakkapuk

FW314:
Bothallchoractorschumminaroundgansumuminarumdrumstrumtruminahumptadumpwault opoofoolooderamaunsturnup

FW332:
Pappappapparrassannuaragheallachnatullaghmonganmacmacmacwhackfalltherdebble nonthedubblandaddydoodled

FW414 (cough):
husstenhasstencaffincoffintussemtossemdamandamnacosaghcusaghhobixhatouxpesw chbechoscashlcarcarcaract

FW424 (Norse gods):
Ullhodturdenweirmudgaardgringnirurdrmolnirfenrirlukkilokkibaugimandodrrerin surtkrinmgernrackinarockar

The tenth and last has 101 letters, making 1001 letters in all.

You've done what no one else could, McArtor. 7 was folly. 8 was a real achievement. 9 will rewrite human history... and perhaps end it. Mind your toys, children.

His name heralded so loud and clear; he is here even during his absence.

His mind forever voyaging; oft times he is absent even when here.

Wasn't Giggidy Marvel Billy Batson's uncle, or was that the tiger? And wasn't the powerful psychic worm, Mr. Mind, trying to control and later eat brains an external expression of Billy's sexual impulses...his carnal animus, if you will? And wasn't the issue where they put Mr. Mind on trial and sentenced him to death in a tiny little electric chair just a metaphor for denying those sexual urges (Thanks, Wisdom of Solomon!)? Or was it early advocacy for the use of electric genital stimulation? Mysteries abound!

Gurus are lonely in their towers on the craggy bluff. All you must ever hear, Gavgoyle, is the wind past your spire window. Do not question its pitchy whistle or the direction of its flow... you are inside the mind of the world, there in your solitude. You have tapped into purest race memory and somehow expected to find a friend there, but the surging voltage of nigh omniscience is not conducive to residence or social play. At best you'll, once in a magenta moon, spy the flickering impermanent forms of those like you, so few in number... so frightened to see what they know.

Kirth's goes to eleven, and Heath feels a trouser tingle. All is as it should be. Be at peace.

So, why Jimmy Osmond? And what did Paul Lynde have to do with any of it?

Paul Lynde was the gay gentleman who did the voice for Templeton the rat. His life yielded many accomplishments but never before had there been a gay rat who loved to gorge. You might find this strange, but on my world, Templeton is a metaphor for the earthly ambitions of your people.

Jimmy Osmond invested heavily in the Branson project. Of all the mormons who can sing on key, tabernacle choir included, he is the richest. If ever Julia Ormond kisses Jimmy Osmond on the face there will be a rift in the fabric of reality. From this rift, as a cosmic birth canal, will emerge the Ahriman Oblique. You do not want this. I recommend cutting off her lips or his head as soon as possible.

Mr. Xyzzyggr wrote:

Steve Buscemi wears purple socks.

It is known that many of the Chosen of the coming Omega Culmination bear Buscemi marks... sometimes refered to as 'the Innsmouth look'. This is half of the heralding of What Is To Come. The other half is the faithful sabotaging the wood chipper industry.

And Donny Osmond's imaginary friend's name is Bush Emmy. Behold the Giggidy. Marvel. Every atom in the universe is both country and rock 'n roll.

Weren't you Batman's girlfriend at some point? You sure look like it, even without the billowing fog and such...

No. But she sounds beautiful.

Steve Buscemi wears purple socks. The cosmos is a masterpiece of interconnected oddities. We call this weave The Freaky Spiral Quilt, and sometimes Giggidy.

"Give me the beet boy, and free my soul,

I wanna get some of that gespacho
and drift away-hay."

More things make sense the further it goes.
Aaah...satori.

Your sage words ring the great underwater bell in the Sea of Cleveland Amory. You were born with the answers. Like the Merlin metaphor, you will only lose them as time passes.

I must go and hang in the Enfamilator for 3.14 hours as I'm famished for Pi.

I am the walrus, Dude.

Shut the f%#~ up, Donny.

Unbeknowst even to himself, Gary Teter is well prepared for the Omega Culmination. Take note, everyone. Remember to smile when finger meets button.

For better or worse, most creations were born of sparking coincidences and creative onanisms amassing as a sustainably tangible whole. Gazpacho was one of them. It holds no importance in the scheme of things other than the saving of Mirabelle Tannerfluke's soul in the year 2023.

You have been training for the great meeting all your life. Certain mundane objects hold major roles in the series of events that lead up the Omega Culmination.

Your kind will all become home for the subterranean basghetti eventually. You will be quite awake for that which I refer to. Play your parts bravely. The outcome is known. I can say nothing. I am but the flash atop the camera. Smile.

When you come to the fork in the road, take it.

Yes. You'll need a tined weapon for what is to come.

Ignorance is the soothing warmth underhoof on the way into the slaughterhouse.

I'm sorry. Am I pushing too hard?

I am infinitely jointed.

Aggressive curiosity is a virtue, Gavgoyle. Ignore the irritating semblence of politness foisted upon you by the picayune ruck. Embrace your compulsion to know. Bellow, insist, acquire.

So do you toast the couples? groupings? menage et dix-sept? with bottles of Cold Duck?

Your questions mimic the truth beyond truth, Gavgoyle. I am impressed by you.

Do your people like pie?

We don't eat crow, but blackbird pies makes for a perfect place setting at our frozen orgweddings. The union of seventeen souls must always be accompanied by the scent of cold fowl, as decreed in the connubial scrolls of Robert Klane.

I don't care what the addiction is, you don't neglect kids.

Does that still apply when kids are the addiction? On my world, children, once atomized and placed inside mist cannisters, are rendered into a fiercely sought narcotic called La. Very few make it to adulthood.

Who are you people? Where are you from?

We are only what you fail to realize. We are from the left, just behind you, coming up quick.

For your joy:

Wir Wiener Wäscherinnen
Würden weiße Wäsche waschen
Wenn wir wüssten
Wo weiches Wasser wäre.

Oh, that was pleasing. Thank you, Shadowcross.

The moon of Karl Hungus. Is that where Logjammin' was filmed?

Indeed. Our race abides.

Forgive my lack of umlauts and esthets.

I am an esthete of only the loveliest umlauts. I assume if you withheld them, they weren't up to my high standards and so I thank you for your thoughtful handpicking.

On my world reactionaries existed only as a medical experiment to ascertain the effects of severe oxygen deprivation on those unlucky enough to be born with only half a brain.

Once the study concluded we held a celebratory cookout. The reactionaries were simply delicious. To taste is to die.

Be at peace, Andrew Turner. Remember the way out is the way in. Stand at the doorway and tell the agents soon to come that four men dressed as ghosts are waiting just inside the offices, holding the lady mayor hostage at gunpoint. The agents will be confused. Scream at them to do something and when they turn, flee and find us.

I will think of the children.

>:[

(I'm scowling--pretty cool, huh?)

You will make a fine rattle, Andrew Turner.

Actually I wrote my post while you were writing yours. Ah, sweet concordance. Who knew you would provide filler in that short time window? Beware the sound of blimps.

Reaching seven pages is a fine and honorable goal but let us ensure that we provide all killer, no filler. Otherwise we're but afficionados of bloat for its own sake, and the last bloat fan I knew turned his ear toward the sky when he thought he heard a blimp coming. Just then, a flaming micrometeor shower shot in through his exposed ear canal, turning his brain off like a switch. It's a true story. His name was Beauregard Munch, and they keep his spacerock-filled head on display at the International Rattle Museum in Vienna.

Mr. Xyzzyggr wrote:

For you, Phil, I have created a profile. Please enjoy it with a cocoa-sodden doughnut and perhaps share it with friends around a cozy fire come first frost.

Horrifying, enlightening, and entertaining, all at once... :)

Averting the rules of my kind, I hereby exist on a non-Thursday just to offer my gratitude to your eyes for caressing my profile. Most don't understand that eyes, being so much softer and moister than hands, make for the best deep issue massage.

On the wobbly moon of Karl Hungus, upon the great onyx slab, your name shall be carved in a bold font, McArtor.

o.o

I adore baby godlings.

I officially declare this thread weird.

So shall it be named.

First Frost has finally come.