The idea that something that has absolutely no real worth outside of character was never one that came easy for me.

Until I got that car.

Now, my twin brother and myself got a car on our 16th birthday. It was a really nice car, too. Can't remember the make and model, but it had all the works, though it was kinda old. Tape player, cruise control, all that. It was a fairly big car, but not a boat, and looked really nice in any case.

We had that car for about 8 months, constantly battling over who would take it when and whatnot.

In any case, after about 8 months, my brother wrecked that car. It wasn't his fault (he, to this day, drives like an 80-year-old woman), but in any case, we needed a replacement, so we could get to school and whatever.

A little background. Yes, I have a twin brother. A fraternal twin, meaning, essentially, not identical. He is, and always has been, my polar opposite. He is my Evil Twin, and I am his. He is responsible, hard working, incredibly anal retentive, and not particularly socially adept. Hence, he is the one who succeeds.

I, on the other hand, am irresponsible, lazy, an utter slob, and quite personable. Hence, I am here.

In any case, this was all taken into account when my mother purchased the replacement. Or rather, replacementS. Plural.

My brother at the time had a job. I did not. My mother bought for him an older model Ford Taurus, a quite nice car. He was to pay her monthly for it, as he had the means and wherewithal to do so, and my mother fully expected him to be good for it, which, of course, he was.

I, on the other hand, am and always have been an unrequited fuck-up.

So she bought me the cheapest car she could find.

A 1988 Grand Marquis. No frills. Manuel windows, manual locks, no cruise control, no tape player, nothing. She fully expected me to trash it within a month.

I am not a car guy. I can drive, I can pump gas, I can check the oil, and I can sometimes change a tire, and thus ends the list of my motor vehicle knowledge/skills. But let me tell you a little about this vehicle.

For one, as I said, it had no frills. Secondly, however, this car was a fucking giant. 20 feet long, from bumper to bumper. Rear wheel drive with a 5-ton engine in the front, a good 15 feet away. Hence, driving during the winter led to a great many adventures and disasters (after the first winter, I began putting bags of concrete in the trunk to weigh the car down accurately. Worked wonders).

My mother's theory on this was that, as I am so irresponsible and a fuck-up in general, that I would likely get into more than a few accidents, and thus, the bigger the car the better. She described this car as "a tank", which indeed it was. I could get into a head on collision with a VW Bug in this car, and the Bug would simply get lodged in the hood (which was 6 feet long at least) and I could continue driving, yelling requests at the driver of the Bug to look out his rear window and let me know what the status was regarding oncoming traffic.

"Hey man! Any traffic in the other lane?"
"Uhhhhh, no. Can you pull ov…."
"Sweet! Let me pass this truck then, we'll get to a rest stop sooner or later!"

Now, many of my friends were upper middle class, so my car was not what one would call a "status symbol" for me. At first, it was received with more than a few "Holy shit, that piece of shit is HUGE!" comments.

In any case, I never let this bother me. When you are 16 and get a car to yourself, you are FREE. And to tell you the truth, I kinda liked this car. Hell, I fucking loved it.

In any case, the car itself was a horrible shade of color. Somewhere between cream and brownish cream. The same color as the folders you can get en masse at Office Depot.

Thus, one day, I decided to name it.

The Manilla Gorilla.

You see, I have discovered that naming things really lends it a new dimension. I name everything I own, ESPECIALLY cars. I have no idea what that says about my personality, you tell me, but I do know that it really adds personality to otherwise impersonal objects.

I started referring to it around my friends by that name. Then, the more people would laugh at it, the more defensive I would get.

"What do you mean it's a boat? This, my friend, is the motherfuckin' Manilla Gorilla. Chicks DIG this car, man! 20 feet of pure animal magnetism! It only has one gear…sexual drive! This car has CHARACTER, man. Fuck your little Hyundai. My car could eat yours ALIVE!!! I could get a fucking Caligula style orgy in the back seat, that's how big it is. Shit, I have a spare car in the trunk. I'm thinking of putting in a pool." Et cetera et cetera et cetera.

And so I started playing off my car as the Pimpmobile I knew it could be.

What surprised me was that the more I talked it up, the more that people started taking to it. They all drove Escorts and Miatas and other such communist vehicles, I had the biggest fucking gas guzzling travesty of efficiency man had ever created. 3 miles to the gallon. Could turn on a 10 foot diameter dime. Could go from 0 to 60 in about 5 minutes or so (though for some reason could go from 60 to 100 in seconds). Could go over speed bumps while doing 60 and you wouldn't even FEEL it. Could parallel park only by shoving the other cars out of the way. It ran all right, and nothing was visibly really wrong with it (when I got it at least, but I'm getting to that.), though it was not, as you would say, an economy car, nor was it a luxury vehicle by any stretch of the imagination.

This was a few years before the SUV craze, mind you. My car was generally the largest thing on the road.

And it ALWAYS got the right of way.

"Silly Toyota! Do you see how BIG my car is! Get the fuck out of my way, can't you see how LARGE this car is!?! You want a taste of me, bitch?! No, didn't think so. Well fucking get the hell out of my way."

The point is, the more I talked it up, the more people began to see it as THE shit, rather than a piece of it. It went from another crappy car to a cultural icon in my community in a matter of weeks. Soon, I started getting requests from girls to take their senior pictures on the hood of my car. People I didn't know would ASK for rides in it. While the seats were not really seats, but rather, two couches (a front couch and a back couch), that back couch saw more ass than a toilet seat.

The trunk could hold 7 people. That was proven on more than one occasion. And seven LIVE people mind you. I am sure that if they were cadavers, it could have fit at least 11 (that theorem, however, has only been proven up to 3).

There is not a helluva lot to do in Topeka, Kansas when you are 16. Many a weekend, we would decide to go get lost in the Kansas countryside. And every time, my car was the one chosen to take us.

You see, I have a notoriously bad sense of direction. When I was living in Waterville, ME, population of two thousand and change, I couldn't find my way to the gas station, which is quite a feat in a town that size (of course it doesn't help that they paved whatever moose trails they found and called them "roads", but that is neither here nor there). People would give me addresses, and I would just stare at the blankly. I need precise directions or I end up in Utah. I get lost EVERYTIME I set out for anywhere. Sometimes for 5 minutes, sometimes for 5 hours (the record, BTW, was being lost for 36 hours), but it ALWAYS happens.

This, however, has never really bothered me.

The aspect of my personality that I am probably most proud of, that helps me most get through this life and this country and everything in between, is my relaxed nature. I am the quintessential "go with the flow" sort of person.

So when I get lost, I just turn up the radio, gun the accelerator, and head out for….wherever. Of course, when I had someplace to be at a certain time, this could be maddening, but generally I quite enjoyed it. Just heading out, trying to find my way to wherever it was I was going, and usually not succeeded. I have seen a lot of this countryside by doing this. It is actually quite a cathartic release. So much so, that I did it recreationally. Just pick a direction and go go go. I always seem to find my way back eventually, but the destination is never important. It's all about the riiiiiiiiiiide, man.

A lot of adventures in that car. I got it AIRBORNE on more than one occasion (which was QUITE a feat considering the size of the car). I also learned that, when you are doing 90 miles an hour on a dirt road in that car, if you opened the passenger side door (it was a 2-door car, thus the doors were about 8 feet long each), the car would turn sharply left. I even strapped a guy to the roof of it once and took a trip down a dusty and bumpy old road (the guy owed me money).

Speaking of which, another odd side effect of the car is that it was a police MAGNET. I got pulled over 16 times in one year alone, but never got a ticket. My theory on this, besides the fact that I was constantly doing illegal maneuvers, is that pigs going profiling would see the car, figure it must contain 6 or 7 black drug dealers (it just looked like it would), and then pull me over for some bullshit reason. When they would see I was just a 17-year-old white kid, they would check my license (which back then was valid) and send me on my way. Never got a ticket.

Everybody loved that car. It was notorious. It had a spot reserved at my school. Were anybody but me to park there, his or her car would almost always get fucked with (not by me). A fixture of sorts.

But as in all things it passed. My mother HATED that car after the first year, and eventually she and my brother conspired together and told me they were going to get rid of it.

My friends and I decided to plan a Viking funeral for it. I had a contest almost, "how to destroy my car before my mom can sell it to some old lady". There were some great entries. Drive it over a bridge, one guy told me. No no, blow that shit up! Drive it into a lake and see how deep you can get it, suggested my buddy's girl.

In the end, the winner was the suggestion from Carl.

"Dude," he said to me solemnly one night over a case of beer and a bag of weed, "you HAVE to enter that beast in a demolition derby."

There was one coming up, where just regular people could enter their cars and they would gather in a gigantic arena and destroy each other. It sounded marvelous.

So, I went out and got all the papers and everything for the derby, and then came to discover that registering for a demolition derby requires a TON of work. You have to take out the gas tank and do a whole bunch of other shit to ensure that your car does not blow up. Remember, I can SOMETIMES change a tire.

Effort, my friends and neighbors, is the enemy of the drug addict.

In retrospect, I really wish I had done that. It is definitely something I want to do before I die. And my car would have fucking DESTROYED all the other ones.

But alas, I chose to not put in all the work required. And so I compromised instead.

Bright and early one Thursday afternoon, I drove my car into the dead center of my high school parking lot during lunch, so it had about a 30-foot radius area to itself. I went to the trunk, got out a 50 pound sledge and a sign that read "Viking Funeral, 5 bucks a pop!" and placed them both besides my car.

At first the people returning from lunch just gave me a really strange look.

So I decided to grease the jar, so to speak.

I got up on the roof of the Gorilla, raised the sledge over my head, and came down with a massive bash to the windshield, which literally EXPLODED.

That's around the time the crowd started to form.

BAM!!! BAM!!! BAM!!!!

I made almost 500 bucks that day. Not to mention quite a reputation for being stark raving mad. And there was only one injury (for real, why on earth would someone take the sledge to the fucking TIRE!?! Fucking moron). I have to say it was a site to behold. Pure automotive carnage at its finest.

In the end, the Gorilla was unrecognizable and a good 90 people got their rocks off in a way that can only happen with a sledgehammer. God may have made the hammer, but the sledge, that is the work of Satan himself, and I am eternally grateful to Him for that.

There was a bit of aftermath to it that I won't go into (you mean I'm not allowed to just LEAVE my destroyed car in your parking lot? Well why the fuck not?!), not to mention I caught hell from my mother about it, and most of the money went to her (though I threw a helluva Goodbye Manilla Gorilla party that weekend with some of it), but I was going to be damned if I would let her sell the Gorilla to some fucking little old lady. The fact that she was the one who bought it in the first place was irrelevant. That car had HISTORY, man. It had STYLE. It had CHARACTER!!!! It deserved to die like a fucking man.

And that it did.

I ended up with another soulless Ford Taurus like the rest of my family.

The end of an era.

RIP Manilla gorilla.

A few years later I wound up driving Jesus Chrysler, but that is a whole 'nother story.

Just to let you know, for all the columns and User Updates, that we have a magnificent editorial staff working night and day to clean your shit up and make sure you don't look like a complete retard.

Our editors:

billgeratbunkummissphinxmorgana

We all owe them our gratitude and undying loyalty because they are so cool.

So when you submit your update, those are the people they go to.

Also, the chat stats are now on the mainpage, to the left there.

*waves at bad-ass chat stats*

Check it out. Updates every 20 minutes and is oh-so-cool of a read. Thank MstrG for that one.

Along with the polls (see below)

That is all.

For my first column, I really wanted to hit the ground running. I really wanted something that would "zing". Something that would be so good, so entertaining, so thought-provoking, that all future attempts by me to fill this space here would be put to shame right from the very beginning.

But the muse is a fickle mistress, gentle reader, and I am left with only one thing, one solitary tale, that keeps bouncing around and about inside my cranium, just begging to be let free.

My favorite drug story.

This all takes place on the last day of my third semester, the day before Christmas break, while I was attending a private school in Iowa. I had just finished up finals that last day, and needed a ride home to Kansas. So I called up a buddy of mine in Topeka that morning, told him if he picked me up I would show him a good time, told him to bring a drug dealer friend of mine, and basically begged my little heart out for a ride. So finally, and very reluctantly, this friend of mine named Carl agreed. When he got off work at 6ish that day, he would bring Kat with him, and they would be in Des Moines to pick me up around Midnight.

Well, I couldn't wait THAT long to start the party. I had about a dozen microdots of acid, an eight ball of cocaine, some weed, and a helluva lot of booze. And while I didn't particularly want to be all whacked out on drugs when my friends arrived, some things just can't be helped.

So I started drinking around 4ish that day.

A bit of background, at the time in college, I belonged to a fraternity. This was not your regular fraternity of Abercrombie and Fich-ites, however. Closer to Animal House then any other example I can think of. A greater hive of scum and villainy could not be found in the entire galaxy. So I spent most of that day over there, at least when I wasn't at whatever bar I stumbled into.

At one point, just before 6, I remember calling Kat, drunk and high as a person can be while still maintaining a degree of consciousness that sometimes allowed standing. The conversation went something like this.

Kat: Hello?
Me: BRING MORE ACID!
Kat: What? Brad, is that you?
Me: BRING MORE ACID!
Kat: Stop yelling.
Me: Okay. Furble grundum furble furble guh.
Kat: What?
Me: You are coming HERE WITH CARL TONIGHT, RIGHT!?
Kat: Yes. And I said quit yelling.
Me: Bring lots of acid when you come.
Kat: Okay.
Me: AND ANYTHING ELSE….
Kat: Brad!
Me: Anything else you can think of.
Kat: Okay. Bye.

Around 9ish, a bunch of my more, errr, none-straightedge friends of mine decided to go back to my dorm room for some acid. This was about 6 of us. My dorm room was approximately 6' x 6' x 6', BTW. But we all managed to squeeze in, and so, despite the considerable handicap of all being absolutely drunk and stoned, somehow managed to get the cap off the microdot vial (how many drugs addicts does it take to….), and dropped the acid.

I really don't remember much of the following night itself, although you can be sure it was an epic display of hedonism which few could fathom, much less match. The cocaine was keeping me more or less awake, while the other drugs were keeping me more or less loopy.

Finally, at around 11ish, I was still in my room with my friends tripping balls, when I got a call from Carl and Kat. They were in the convenience down the block.

So, I wandered over there on foot, despite the considerable handicap of figuring that the snow was as solid as cement, and that it was about 12 degrees and I was sweating like a pig at a roast.

But, I managed to find the place (a single Kum and Go ((yes, that was the name of the store) on an empty street.)). And I saw Kat, obviously in a similar shape as myself, pawing around the candy aisle of the mart and Carl sitting in the car, with a pissed off expression on his face, trying to stay warm.

Well, I won't go into too much detail of the night itself. We did everything we could get our hands on and more, and ended up with Carl passing out from cocaine come-down, me and Kat dropping acid at about 5 AM, and then promptly passing out half-naked on a couch 15 minutes later.

Kat and I were awakened at about 6:30 AM at gunpoint. Carl had brought an air rifle with him and was poking us with the nozzle to get us awake. He had bloodshot eyes, looked a bit unstable, was shaking slightly, and was very stubborn about the fact that we had to get back to Topeka RIGHT NOW.

So, the three of us piled into Carl's car. Kat, who was in somewhat of a daze, wearing her nightgown and a heavy winter coat, slumped into the backseat in a fetal position around the air rifle, Carl driving, and me in the passenger side playing with a pair of binoculars I had acquired the night before from God-knows-where. Acid and an expensive pair of binoculars whilst tooling across barren Iowa highways at 95 miles an hour is great, great fun. I was hanging out of the window, looking at everything through the wrong end, and screaming at Carl to go faster so we can catch up to the road.

Some more background.

Carl was about 27 when this all took place. He was a grizzled old addict, set in his ways, and not at all happy about having to pick up a raving lunatic in Iowa and transport him to Kansas during the wee hours of a friggin cold December morn. I was 19 at the time. Kat was at an undetermined age, probably about 16 or 17.

Carl was dead tired from the cocaine and whiskey the night before, but he, like so many loonies, has a little button that goes off inside his head once drug consumption reaches critical max. The button flips, and the message "GO HOME GO HOME GO HOME" begins cycling through the psyche at an alarmingly loud and obnoxious rate. This is my theory on why so many people drive drunk even when they know they should not. It's all about that button, man.

He hasn't shaven in about two weeks for whatever reason, eyes bloodshot, and is snorting cocaine off the dashboard whenever no other cars are in site, produced via some sort of beaker he keeps with him at all times for just such occasions. He is in a foul mood, to say the least.

Cut to me.

I am frantically rousing Kat awake with one hand, while my other hand steadfastly holds the binoculars to my face at all times (it's IMPORTANT, dammit!). Kat awakens, fresh as a daisy, and produces more acid from her coat pocket within seconds of regaining consciousness.

It is about 8 AM at this point. We both drop about 4 hits each, that compounded with all the stuff we drank, smoked, snorted, and dropped only hours before in Des Moines. I also have my trusty bottle of Jim Beam with me, which we pull off of when we feel like it.

An hour of calm, then the acid starts to take hold, along with the whiskey. This is VERY good acid, mind you. We were reduced to raving lunatics. And Kat is like Silent Bob in Mallrats. Her coat was a bottomless pit of depravity.

"Boy, I wish I had some coke," I murmur.
"Keep your goddamned hands off my stuff," Carl shouts, "I need it to drive!"
"Here Brad, I have some!" says Kat as she produces a folded up ounce from God knows where.

You had to love this girl.

This is NOT Carl's idea of a good time. He is tired, strung out, and is in a car with enough drugs to make Hunter S. Thompson envious, not to mention a half naked underage girl and a car that may or may not be stolen.

So at some point, when he just can't take it anymore, he pulls over in some small town in Missouri, and tells us to get the fuck out of the car for an hour while he catches some zzzzs.

He passes out before we have a chance to argue.

Now, something about Missouri is that it is nothing BUT small podunk towns, with populations in the hundreds. Small farming communities, backwater sorts of places, which boast a stoplight and a bar and that's about it. This was such a town. We were parked at a gas station that had yet to open, and nothing but a dirt road and small shops and farms as far as the eye can see. That and it is about –25 degrees at this point, and the wind chill wasn't helping any.

But, he had the air rifle, he was the only one with even a modicum of capacity to drive, so we had no place to argue. Besides, he was already asleep.

So, off we go. Kat in her nightgown and wintercoat, myself in my cords, t-shirt and windbreaker.

We walk up this road, turning blue with teeth chattering, and watching as the stores begin to open and farmers on tractors pass us by to start their day's labor, giving us very strange looks as they passed.

Something about the Midwest that very few people realize is how cold it really gets. When I moved from Kansas to Maine, people would scoff when I would relate to them the freezing winds of the Great Plains. We had an exchange student around that time from Sweden. My mother told him to bring winter clothes, and he laughed that suggestion off. When winter hit, he nearly froze to death, and ended up buying more long underwear than he had ever owned. He noted before he left, "It NEVER gets this cold in Sweden. It is cold for longer, and it snows more, but I have never seen winds this cold in my entire life."

So here we were, about 3 miles down the road, freezing to death. Kat is starting to get signs of frostbite on her calves, and I am blue and my teeth are chattering.

Well, this was a situation which called for more whiskey, and certainly more acid.

We ended up dropping inside somebody's barn while petting a cow.

We named the cow "Dopey".

That is the extent of my recollection about this part of the trip.

We got back to the car, and Carl was awake, snorting coke of the dash once more, but in much better spirits.

So off we go once more.

When we near the Missouri border, Carl mumbles something about needing to pick up some eggplants. Fair enough, we think to ourselves. That sounds pretty harmless.

It was not.

Carl is a very strange man, with very strange tastes, and the ONLY eggplants in the STATE that are worth eating can apparently only be found in a certain international marketplace in downtown Kansas City.

He takes us there.

He parks in the middle of a scene out of Indiana Jones. People of indiscernible nationality are throwing fish and chickens, live ones both, at one another. People are shouting at each other in various languages. And an ethnicity resembling Morlocks seem to be running the majority of stands. This is Little China, Little Italy, Little Zimbabwe, Little RiverWorld, Little everything, all combined onto one downtown city block, though it resembles more closely an alley. And we hit it at the peak time of the week.

Carl immediately departs from the car, parked on the sidewalk next to a chicken stand (again, live chickens) and disappears into the crowd, on his mad quest of the elusive eggplants, while Kat and I sit in the car dumbfounded, befuddled at the scene that awaits us once we step out of the car.

But of course, we didn't let that stop us.

I suppose the scene that we stepped into would be best conveyed visually then through text. Stands on both side of a narrow street, droves of people of various nationalities and chattering and shouting in unknown languages everywhere, fares that ranged from vegetables I couldn't place as being indigenous to Earth to live goats shackled up in rickety wooden cages. And the Morlocks. Sweet Christ, the Morlocks!

In any case, it was quite a trip.

Kat and I got separated more than once, which was a terrifying experience, as she was the one carrying the drugs and I was in desperate need of some horse tranquilizers at this point.

We found each other in what was apparently the live animal section of the market.

We decide we need to buy a rabbit.

When we returned to the car, Carl was already there with the various things he had acquired, and we show up carrying a wooden cage with a 12-pound rabbit inside. He doesn't even blink.

We get in the car and head for Topeka once more.

Now this time I was in the back seat and Kat was munching on Kim Chee in the passenger seat. We had bought the rabbit with some crazed notion that we would save it from a boiling pot and make it into a cuddly little bunny pet thing. However, those Morlocks must have treated this rabbit in quite the dastardly and masochistic manner (the strange Arabic sign branded into it's rump should have clued me into this), and he was absolutely terrified.

So we drop more acid and I open the cage to pet the widdle bunny.

The widdle bunny suddenly comes alive in a crazed frenzy, first biting me, opening an inch long gap on the back of my hand, and then going into spasms of rage with enough force behind them to utterly break apart the wooden cage.

I start screaming like a little girl.

Carl starts swerving all over the two-lane highway, doing about 105 mph.

Kat goes into fits of laughter.

"Brad, what the FUCK are you doing!?!?!" Carl shouts at me over his shoulder as he regains control of the car and goes for more cocaine.

"Don't worry, I'll get this under control!" I shout back.

Mind you, there is the largest and meanest rabbit I have ever seen, loose on the floor in the backseat of the car, in a frenzied rampage. This is no ordinary rabbit, mind you. This is a Morlock rabbit!

So, I grab the air rifle and begin loading it furiously.

Now, again, I have to defer to the story visually. Try to picture the half naked underage girl in the passenger seat turning blue from laughing so hard, the grizzled coke addict driver screaming at me, and me, all hopped up, crouching on the seat, firing an air rifle at the floor of the car trying to kill that fucking wascally wabbit.

A rifle is very hard to aim in close quarters.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING!!!???!?!" screams Carl.
"Don't worry, I think I have it cornered this time!"
BANG!!!!!!
"No, I got him now!"
BANG!!!!!!!
sounds of rabbit screeching
"I wounded him! I wounded him! Yeah, who's the man!"
BANG!!!!!
"DAMMIT! This fucker is FAST!"
BANG!!!!
BANG!!!
BANG!!!!

At which point Carl brings the car to a screeching halt in the middle of the deserted Kansas highway, gets out of the car, opens the back door, and watches as the screeching bloodied bunny FLIES out of the car in a flurry of fur and blood, disappearing in the tall grass on the side of the road. He looks at the blood, the bullet holes, and the fur all over the car floor, and me holding the air rifle with a sheepish look on my face, muttering something about damn dirty Morlock rabbits.

It was at this point where Carl took the gun from me and began to hit me in the face with the butt of it repeatedly until I was sedated to his satisfaction.

I don't remember much of the trip after that. Not that I remembered a helluva lot before, mind you. This trip normally takes 6 hours or so. It took us about 24, if that tells you anything.

But we got home okay. I remember it was the day that the House voted to impeach president Clinton, and I slouched down on my couch in my Topeka home, with a head still full of acid and an icepack on my face, SURE that I could read Al Gore's mind while the House Democrats and Clinton were making their lengthy announcement.

After that, Carl refused to come pick me up anymore. From anywhere. Period.

Kat, on the other hand, subsequently came and visited me about a half dozen times, claiming she had the best time of her life.

No word yet on the Morlock rabbit.

That is all.

-The new default for forum signatures is to INCLUDE it. So, don't be an asshole and clog up the forum with a 3,000 word long signature. -if you DO decide to be an asshole about your sig, your fun will be cut short anyhow. Allowable Sig length will soon be reduced.-If you don't want your signature to be included everytime, you need to go into your profile and either DELETE it or uncheck the box everytime you post. -The Suggestions Forum is still there. Use it. And don't say we never gave you a voice in this. If you don't post it, you can't get pissed if nothing happens.

Alrighty then. Lecture over. Class dismissed. Apple polishers will receive their earned brownosing points.~karen

A gaming forum.

For computer, video, board, virtual reality, dice, or any other games you can think of.

So, go post about your Whorehouse Union in there to your heart's content.

O'DOYLE RULEZ!

And so do we.

That is all.

If it is not back by the time Forum Trivia is supposed to happen, I will have to hurt somebody.

You see...

I kick ass FOR THE LORD!!!!!!

That is all.

He now has more posts than the Roman calender has years.

MstrG will be administering special forum birthday lashes later today, all 2000 of them, live on karen's webcam!

Expect Wonder to type standing up tonight.

That is all.

hoorah for Dingle, without him we'd all die.

So they picked me

So here I am, the most elite of the elite, ready to take your puter questions.

Admittedly, I am pretty much gone until Monday, but FEAR NOT HOPELESS LAMERS!

I shall return Monday to catch up on all your questions. And even though they will all most likely be FAR below my techie skillZ, I will try and sink to your neanderthal level and help you turn your box on.

So don't be a stranger. Ask away. No question is too dumb. Although some posters are.

That is all.

You wanted a pictures forum, you got a pictures forum! Feel free to post any pics, artwork, whatever right there. Any pics are welcome!

If you have any suggestions for a name for said forum, please check the appropriatly titled thread in that forum.

In any case, I hope we can count on you people not bitching about it any more. Because, as it were, any bitching at this point on this point would be pretty superfluous.

Did I mention I was drunk?

Did I also mention I hit a thousand posts too?

Sus U nwbruib U An seybj?

I thought so.

In any case, feel free to post all your crappy pics and art in the new forum.