Quotes

Once you get past the shoulders, it’s all downhill. You can do this.

That’s called happiness, you zombie.

So there we were, in full nerd-core D&D mode, when the party burst into a room where a horrible dark ritual was being conducted, including the obligatory scantily clad maiden dangling over a pit of ice, about to be sacrificed in order to bring about hell on earth, general badness, screaming and flaming death, etc.

MAIDEN: Save me!
PALADIN: We’ll save you!
DRUID: Uhm, Rooster, are we sure she’s on the up and up?
GM: As far as you can tell, she’s a normal damsel in distress.

After several moments of intense cogitation, Rooster the paladin dredged up memories of late-night studying sessions in little paladin’s school, and came to a conclusion.

PALADIN: And I mean this in the most detached, scientific way possible, but are her nipples….err…it’s cold…You know….?
REST OF PARTY: ….
GM: …I…what….?
PALADIN: ‘Cos if she’s human and dangling over a pit of ice, they’re gonna be all pointy, but demons don’t have working nipples. They don’t lactate! They’re not really mammals! They lay eggs. Sorta like echidnas…well, I mean, the succubuseses do, but that’s different. They use them for other stuff. Not like echidnas. Er.
REST OF PARTY: ….
PALADIN: It’s SCIENCE!
GNOME: What kind of school did you go to?!

Kevin (the GM) gazed out a dark window for a few minutes. He was already having a rough session, as we had refused to ring the obvious magic gong to open the door, opting instead to make an illusory gong sound (nobody makes us ring gongs against our will!) and there had been the lengthy discussion of whether Fizgig can break a magic circle by pooping on it during combat.

GM: …They’re pointy.
PALADIN: We’ll save you!

A few minutes later, the ostensible maiden mind-controlled our gnome. Her familiar, Lawrence the toad, began immediately to panic.

GNOME: Or as we call it in our party, interpretive dance!

While Lawrence danced frantically to express that Something Was Wrong, Rooster was forced to confront his own disillusion.

PALADIN: I can’t believe the nipples lied.
RANGER (with surprising venom): THE NIPPLES ALWAYS LIE!
PALADIN (meekly): Mine don’t. I have Lawful Good nipples.
DRUID’S PLAYER: Dear god, I cannot Tweet fast enough.

PALADIN’S PLAYER: Can I roll a religions check to see why the nipple check failed?
GM: Do it.
PALADIN’S PLAYER: 28.
GM: She’s a succubus. They’re the only species of demon that understand nipples.
PALADIN’S PLAYER: …fair enough.

I hope you find what you’re looking for in 2015.

you’re trottin’ for a knottin’

im gonna go to bed at ten tonight

I swear to every heaven ever imagined,
if I hear one more dead-eyed hipster
tell me that art is dead, I will personally summon Shakespeare
from the grave so he can tell them every reason
why he wishes he were born in a time where
he could have a damn Gmail account.
The day after I taught my mother
how to send pictures over Iphone she texted
me a blurry image of our cocker spaniel ten times in a row.
Don’t you dare try to tell me that that is not beautiful.
But whatever, go ahead and choose to stay in
your backwards-hoping-all-inclusive club
while the rest of us fall in love over Skype.
Send angry letters to state representatives,
as we record the years first sunrise so
we can remember what beginning feels like when
we are inches away from the trigger.
Lock yourself away in your Antoinette castle
while we eat cake and tweet to the whole universe that we did.
Hashtag you’re a pretentious ass hole.
Van Gogh would have taken 20 selflies a day.
Sylvia Plath would have texted her lovers
nothing but heart eyed emojis when she ran out of words.
Andy Warhol would have had the worlds weirdest Vine account,
and we all would have checked it every morning while we
Snap Chat our coffee orders to the people
we wish were pressed against our lips instead of lattes.
This life is spilling over with 85 year olds
rewatching JFK’s assassination and
7 year olds teaching themselves guitar over Youtube videos.
Never again do I have to be afraid of forgetting
what my fathers voice sounds like.
No longer must we sneak into our families phonebook
to look up an eating disorder hotline for our best friend.
No more must I wonder what people in Australia sound like
or how grasshoppers procreate.
I will gleefully continue to take pictures of tulips
in public parks on my cellphone
and you will continue to scoff and that is okay.
But I hope, I pray, that one day you will realize how blessed
you are to be alive in a moment where you can google search
how to say I love you in 164 different languages.

Tev is so bara he can’t actually get into his garrison.

I may have accidentally an undead army.

It’s 2014 and people are still fighting on the road.