TaDa! Nicely done. Think we'll make it to seven?
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.
finally-page 6-but what now?
Obviously the poor and pitiful OP of this thread has a clear case of OCD, and Paizo apparently ruined his sense of order in his own little world and it's turned into this?!
Pure genius! :D This is hilarious.
there once was a gnoll from Verdun
His fur was ochre and dun
he didn't know why
He must post on the fly
But eventually his wit became fun
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.
>:[
(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.
I have found something else that the OP could complain about. I was reading through one of my older issues of Dungeon and discovered that they spelled Eberron incorrectly, not once but twice on the front cover!
Oh the humanity! Won't somebody think of the children?
Olaf the Stout
I will think of the children.
|
Awwww...
That's sweet; it touches my heart...
...
...
OH GOD!!!! THE PAIN!!!!!! STOP TOUCHING MY HEART!!!!!!!!!!STOP!!!!!!!
...
...
...
What's that noise? Do you hear that? Do you--what--hey--hey! Black Blimps! Black Blimps! S!~&! They're coming through the windows! Destroy the harddrives! Shred! Shred! SHRED!!!
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.
|
|
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.
It's true. I saw it. Right next to John Dillinger's pickled pepper.
Wir Wiener Wascherinnen
Wurde weisse wesche waschen
Wen wir wusten
Wo weiches wasser ware.
Forgive my lack of umlauts and esthets.
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.
For your joy:
Wir Wiener Wäscherinnen
Würden weiße Wäsche waschen
Wenn wir wüssten
Wo weiches Wasser wäre.
The moon of Karl Hungus. Is that where Logjammin' was filmed?
Indeed. Our race abides.
This thread is the funniest thread ever! I wish the OP would come back, though. I'm sure he could find something wrong with the discussions since his exit.
English needs umlauts!!!
NAY! ENGLISH NEEDS LARS UMLAUT!
For your joy:
Wir Wiener Wäscherinnen
Würden weiße Wäsche waschen
Wenn wir wüssten
Wo weiches Wasser wäre.
Oh, that was pleasing. Thank you, Shadowcross.
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.
My master has retired back to his chamber of logic, a magical iron chamber that bestows him with the great logic that he has shown to you puny mortals here.
However, he would like me to point out to you that he has a problem with the most recent issue of Dungeon as well. The adventure Enemies of My Enemy contains an NPC named General Bagromar, but the illustration is obviously titled "General Bogromar."
How could such a grievous error get past the editing of Paizo?
They obviously do not care at all about their customers, as this confuses the average customer into thinking there are two similarly-named NPCs in the adventure.
My master would like to prove to you that this is deceitful by comparing this grievous error to balls and bowls, but must wait in his chamber of logic for many more days until he is able to make the argument so very logical that none of you simple-minded beings can argue it.
With that, he wishes a good night to all of the fannboiiiieezs and carebears of these boards.
In response to a summons much earlier in this thread, and as a mentally retarded, half-blind, turpentine-drinking, illiterate gamer-hating-Christian-out-of-a-Tom-Hanks-movie, I agree with the original poster. Just because the rest of you can read above a first grade level doesn't mean everyone that sees the magazine can.
People like us only get to post on the internet for a few minutes at a time before the drool causes the keyboard to malfunction and the smell of the filth in which we sit becomes overwhelming. You should respect the fact that the original poster overcame both his educational failings and imbecility long enough to string semi-coherent sentences together and express an opinion on anything. The hardest decision guys like us make every day is whether to work on our tinfoil hats to protect us from orbital mind lasers or stand on the street corner to warn people about the wrong they gone and done.
My master welcomes your compliments. He wishes to invite you to his lair so that the two of you might drink turpentine and make tinfoil hats until the cows come home.
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.
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.
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.
Pushing for page 7....
Ignorance is the soothing warmth underhoof on the way into the slaughterhouse.
When you come to the fork in the road, take it.
Yes. You'll need a tined weapon for what is to come.
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.
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.
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.
