Actually, I can't find anything to troll about regarding Valve. They create quality games with non-intrusive DRM. So I'll just resort to the standard racist trolling.
OOOK OOOK BANANA FUCKED HIS LINES UP!!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! THAT'S WHAT YOU GET WHEN YOU'VE GOT A HOUSE-NIGGER RUNNING THE COUNTRY!
September 16, 2011. Today it finally began! After all these years of talking-and nothing but talking-we have finally taken our first action. We are at war with the System, and it is no longer a war of words. I cannot sleep, so I will try writing down some of the thoughts which are flying through my head. It is not safe to talk here. The walls are quite thin, and the neighbors might wonder at a late-night conference. Besides, George and Katherine are already asleep. Only Henry and I are still awake, and he's just staring at the ceiling.
I am really uptight. l am so jittery I can barely sit still. And I'm exhausted. I've been up since 5:30 this morning, when George phoned to warn that the arrests had begun, and it's after midnight now. I've been keyed up and on the move all day.
But at the same time I'm exhilarated. We have finally acted! How long we will be able to continue defying the System, no one knows. Maybe it will all end tomorrow, but we must not think about that. Now that we have begun, we must continue with the plan we have been developing so carefully ever since the Gun Raids two years ago.
What a blow that was to us! And how it shamed us! All that brave talk by patriots, "The government will never take my guns away," and then nothing but meek submission when it happened.
On the other hand, maybe we should be heartened by the fact that there were still so many of us who had guns then, nearly 18 months after the Obama Act had outlawed all private ownership of firearms in the United States. It was only because so many of us defied the law and hid our weapons instead of turning them in that the government wasn't able to act more harshly against us after the Gun Raids.
I'll never forget that terrible day: November 9, 2009. They knocked on my door at five in the morning. I was completely unsuspecting as I got up to see who it was.
I opened the door, and four Negroes came pushing into the apartment before I could stop them. One was carrying a baseball bat, and two had long kitchen knives thrust into their belts. The one with the bat shoved me back into a corner and stood guard over me with his bat raised in a threatening position while the other three began ransacking my apartment.
My first thought was that they were robbers. Robberies of this sort had become all too common since the Obama Act, with groups of Blacks forcing their way into White homes to rob and rape, knowing that even if their victims had guns they probably would not dare use them.
Then the one who was guarding me flashed some kind of card and informed me that he and his accomplices were "special deputies" for the Northern Virginia Human Relations Council. They were searching for firearms, he said.
I couldn't believe it. It just couldn't be happening. Then I saw that they were wearing strips of green cloth tied around their left arms. As they dumped the contents of drawers on the floor and pulled luggage from the closet, they were ignoring things that robbers wouldn't have passed up: my brand-new electric razor, a valuable gold pocket watch, a milk bottle full of dimes. They were looking for firearms!
Right after the Obama Act was passed, all of us in the Organization had cached our guns and ammunition where they weren't likely to be found. Those in my unit had carefully greased our weapons, sealed them in an oil drum, and spent all of one tedious weekend burying the drum in an eight-foot-deep pit 200 miles away in the woods of western Pennsylvania.
But I had kept one gun out of the cache. I had hidden my.357 magnum revolver and 50 rounds of ammunition inside the door frame between the kitchen and the living room. By pulling out two loosened nails and removing one board from the door frame I could get to my revolver in about two minutes flat if I ever needed it. I had timed myself.
But a police search would
Take in as much air as you can. This story should last about as long as you can hold your breath, and then just a little bit longer. So listen as fast as you can.
A friend of mine, when he was 13 years old he heard about "pegging." This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a dildo. Stimulate the prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you can have explosive hands-free orgasms. At that age, this friend's a little sex maniac. He's always jonesing for a better way to get his rocks off. He goes out to buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To conduct a little private research. Then he pictures how it's going to look at the supermarket checkout counter, the lonely carrot and petroleum jelly rolling down the conveyer belt toward the grocery store cashier. All the shoppers waiting in line, watching. Everyone seeing the big evening he has planned.
So my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline.
Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.
At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm. Nothing happens except it hurts.
Then, this kid, his mom yells it's supper time. She says to come down, right now.
He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the dirty clothes under his bed.
After dinner, he goes to find the carrot, and it's gone. All his dirty clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry. No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.
This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for his folks to confront him. And they never do. Ever. Even now that he's grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner, every birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his parents' grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them. That something too awful to name.
People in France have a phrase: "staircase wit." In French: esprit de l'escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer, but it's too late. Say you're at a party and someone insults you. You have to say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party....
As you start down the stairway, then-magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should've said. The perfect crippling put-down.
That's the spirit of the stairway.
The trouble is, even the French don't have a phrase for the stupid things you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid, desperate things you actually think or do.
Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked about.
Looking back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now say that most of the last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke while they beat off. Their folks would find them, a towel twisted around their kid's neck, the towel tied to the rod in their bedroom closet, the kid dead. Dead sperm everywhere. Of course the folks cleaned up. They put some pants on their kid. They made it look... better. Intentional at least. The regular kind of sad teen suicide.
Another friend of mine, a kid from school, his older brother in the Navy said how guys in the Middle East jack off different than we do here. This brother was stationed in some camel country where the public market sells what could be fancy letter openers. Each fancy tool is just a thin rod of polished brass or silver, maybe as long as your hand, with a big tip at one end, either a big metal ball or the kind of fancy carved handle you'd see on a sword. This Navy brother says how Arab guys get their dick hard and then insert this metal rod inside the whole length of their boner. They jack off with the rod inside, and it makes getting off so much better. More intense.
It's this big brother who travels around the world,
The parent will be ignored as a troll, but speaks the truth.
The UK is no better than a third-world country, with basic literacy standards worse than before state-mandated education was effected.
And like these tinpot dictatorships, those in control are implementing more and more draconian measures to oppress law-abiding citizens. It suits the government to persecute the victims of crime, rather than punish the perpetrators.
British justice ended with Ruth Ellis. She was convicted as guilty of murder, and punished accordingly. Now, innocent homeowners are murdered every week by subhuman parasites who will be free again in under a decade.
The British mindset can be best summarized by the actions of an ex-soldier, who urinated over a dying woman in a busy town centre in broad daylight as his friends videoed.
And meanwhile, by churning out the same scrotum-popping torture porn that they've been accused of, Rockstar stagnate and do nothing to advance the cause of gaming as art.
Try separating the hype from the quality of their titles, and we'll soon see why Take Two are having financial problems.
Slashdot Mirror
Wikipedia is a sham anyway - if the truth doesn't appeal to the shadowy elite, it gets deleted.
Actually, I can't find anything to troll about regarding Valve. They create quality games with non-intrusive DRM. So I'll just resort to the standard racist trolling.
OOOK OOOK BANANA FUCKED HIS LINES UP!!!! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! THAT'S WHAT YOU GET WHEN YOU'VE GOT A HOUSE-NIGGER RUNNING THE COUNTRY!
Remember that Vista was written by India's blessed IT 'experts', and look at how well that turned out.
Wouldn't that be 'DE-generate'?
September 16, 2011. Today it finally began! After all these years of talking-and nothing but talking-we have finally taken our first action. We are at war with the System, and it is no longer a war of words.
I cannot sleep, so I will try writing down some of the thoughts which are flying through my head.
It is not safe to talk here. The walls are quite thin, and the neighbors might wonder at a late-night conference. Besides, George and Katherine are already asleep. Only Henry and I are still awake, and he's just staring at the ceiling.
I am really uptight. l am so jittery I can barely sit still. And I'm exhausted. I've been up since 5:30 this morning, when George phoned to warn that the arrests had begun, and it's after midnight now. I've been keyed up and on the move all day.
But at the same time I'm exhilarated. We have finally acted! How long we will be able to continue defying the System, no one knows. Maybe it will all end tomorrow, but we must not think about that. Now that we have begun, we must continue with the plan we have been developing so carefully ever since the Gun Raids two years ago.
What a blow that was to us! And how it shamed us! All that brave talk by patriots, "The government will never take my guns away," and then nothing but meek submission when it happened.
On the other hand, maybe we should be heartened by the fact that there were still so many of us who had guns then, nearly 18 months after the Obama Act had outlawed all private ownership of firearms in the United States. It was only because so many of us defied the law and hid our weapons instead of turning them in that the government wasn't able to act more harshly against us after the Gun Raids.
I'll never forget that terrible day: November 9, 2009. They knocked on my door at five in the morning. I was completely unsuspecting as I got up to see who it was.
I opened the door, and four Negroes came pushing into the apartment before I could stop them. One was carrying a baseball bat, and two had long kitchen knives thrust into their belts. The one with the bat shoved me back into a corner and stood guard over me with his bat raised in a threatening position while the other three began ransacking my apartment.
My first thought was that they were robbers. Robberies of this sort had become all too common since the Obama Act, with groups of Blacks forcing their way into White homes to rob and rape, knowing that even if their victims had guns they probably would not dare use them. .357 magnum revolver and 50 rounds of ammunition inside the door frame between the kitchen and the living room. By pulling out two loosened nails and removing one board from the door frame I could get to my revolver in about two minutes flat if I ever needed it. I had timed myself.
Then the one who was guarding me flashed some kind of card and informed me that he and his accomplices were "special deputies" for the Northern Virginia Human Relations Council. They were searching for firearms, he said.
I couldn't believe it. It just couldn't be happening. Then I saw that they were wearing strips of green cloth tied around their left arms. As they dumped the contents of drawers on the floor and pulled luggage from the closet, they were ignoring things that robbers wouldn't have passed up: my brand-new electric razor, a valuable gold pocket watch, a milk bottle full of dimes. They were looking for firearms!
Right after the Obama Act was passed, all of us in the Organization had cached our guns and ammunition where they weren't likely to be found. Those in my unit had carefully greased our weapons, sealed them in an oil drum, and spent all of one tedious weekend burying the drum in an eight-foot-deep pit 200 miles away in the woods of western Pennsylvania.
But I had kept one gun out of the cache. I had hidden my
But a police search would
Niggers fuck Monkeys. White Sluts fuck Niggers.
And Shit-stabbers fuck everything.
This is what happens when a game is so shit that you can't find players to group with.
Now all it needs is any developer support and NO obnoxious shill marketing campaign and you'll have half a DS.
And it's the most advanced game ever written in Java.
You mean niggerspeak?
Excrement
Eaters
Everywhere
So business school cunts and lawyers are detrimental to the progress of society?
Who would have thought it?
At least the Gooks only managed to block it for their own country.
Unlike the useless Pakis.
And meanwhile, nobody else GIVES A FUCK!
What loot did he drop?
Q. Why are muslims bad at Calculus?
A. They refuse to learn how to integrate!
Inhale.
... better. Intentional at least. The regular kind of sad teen suicide.
Take in as much air as you can. This story should last about as long as you can hold your breath, and then just a little bit longer. So listen as fast as you can.
A friend of mine, when he was 13 years old he heard about "pegging." This is when a guy gets banged up the butt with a dildo. Stimulate the prostate gland hard enough, and the rumor is you can have explosive hands-free orgasms. At that age, this friend's a little sex maniac. He's always jonesing for a better way to get his rocks off. He goes out to buy a carrot and some petroleum jelly. To conduct a little private research. Then he pictures how it's going to look at the supermarket checkout counter, the lonely carrot and petroleum jelly rolling down the conveyer belt toward the grocery store cashier. All the shoppers waiting in line, watching. Everyone seeing the big evening he has planned.
So my friend, he buys milk and eggs and sugar and a carrot, all the ingredients for a carrot cake. And Vaseline.
Like he's going home to stick a carrot cake up his butt.
At home, he whittles the carrot into a blunt tool. He slathers it with grease and grinds his ass down on it. Then, nothing. No orgasm. Nothing happens except it hurts.
Then, this kid, his mom yells it's supper time. She says to come down, right now.
He works the carrot out and stashes the slippery, filthy thing in the dirty clothes under his bed.
After dinner, he goes to find the carrot, and it's gone. All his dirty clothes, while he ate dinner, his mom grabbed them all to do laundry. No way could she not find the carrot, carefully shaped with a paring knife from her kitchen, still shiny with lube and stinky.
This friend of mine, he waits months under a black cloud, waiting for his folks to confront him. And they never do. Ever. Even now that he's grown up, that invisible carrot hangs over every Christmas dinner, every birthday party. Every Easter egg hunt with his kids, his parents' grandkids, that ghost carrot is hovering over all of them. That something too awful to name.
People in France have a phrase: "staircase wit." In French: esprit de l'escalier. It means that moment when you find the answer, but it's too late. Say you're at a party and someone insults you. You have to say something. So under pressure, with everybody watching, you say something lame. But the moment you leave the party....
As you start down the stairway, then-magic. You come up with the perfect thing you should've said. The perfect crippling put-down.
That's the spirit of the stairway.
The trouble is, even the French don't have a phrase for the stupid things you actually do say under pressure. Those stupid, desperate things you actually think or do.
Some deeds are too low to even get a name. Too low to even get talked about.
Looking back, kid-psych experts, school counselors now say that most of the last peak in teen suicide was kids trying to choke while they beat off. Their folks would find them, a towel twisted around their kid's neck, the towel tied to the rod in their bedroom closet, the kid dead. Dead sperm everywhere. Of course the folks cleaned up. They put some pants on their kid. They made it look
Another friend of mine, a kid from school, his older brother in the Navy said how guys in the Middle East jack off different than we do here. This brother was stationed in some camel country where the public market sells what could be fancy letter openers. Each fancy tool is just a thin rod of polished brass or silver, maybe as long as your hand, with a big tip at one end, either a big metal ball or the kind of fancy carved handle you'd see on a sword. This Navy brother says how Arab guys get their dick hard and then insert this metal rod inside the whole length of their boner. They jack off with the rod inside, and it makes getting off so much better. More intense.
It's this big brother who travels around the world,
I think I speak for everyone when I say that pen and paper RPGs died 20 years ago.
Isn't it about time these pathetic man-children grew up and started to accept some responsibility for their place in the world?
You can't THAC0 save against global recession, dweebs!
Q. What's better than a dead nigger in a holding cell?
A. Five Hundred dead niggers in a lime pit!
VOTE RON PAUL 2008
Someone drag Randy Newman off stage now.
I want to hear 'One more thing'
And Randy Cunting Newman should be dragged off and executed as a fucking traitor!
Remote Disc is nice though.
The parent will be ignored as a troll, but speaks the truth.
The UK is no better than a third-world country, with basic literacy standards worse than before state-mandated education was effected.
And like these tinpot dictatorships, those in control are implementing more and more draconian measures to oppress law-abiding citizens. It suits the government to persecute the victims of crime, rather than punish the perpetrators.
British justice ended with Ruth Ellis. She was convicted as guilty of murder, and punished accordingly. Now, innocent homeowners are murdered every week by subhuman parasites who will be free again in under a decade.
The British mindset can be best summarized by the actions of an ex-soldier, who urinated over a dying woman in a busy town centre in broad daylight as his friends videoed.
No-one attempted to stop him.
And meanwhile, by churning out the same scrotum-popping torture porn that they've been accused of, Rockstar stagnate and do nothing to advance the cause of gaming as art.
Try separating the hype from the quality of their titles, and we'll soon see why Take Two are having financial problems.
I don't recall the PS2 erupting into an overheated Red-Ring-of-Death mess every few months.
"I'll be black"?