[X] My Assistant

Fuuuuuuck I can't load Dawn of the Dragons for some reason.

I NEED MY GAME FIX.

/addict

... The first movie has "To Be Continued..." at the end of it.

You're so amazingly stupid it hurts.

Never seen more than bits and peices of the first.

You're so amazingly stupid it hurts.

Blorg, for the love of all that is Blorg, what kind of a senseless idea is that of stopping a medication without a doctor's prescription, Blorg? You do realize that kind of shit can kill, Blorg? It's serious Blorg, Blorg. Blorg.

Anyhow, don't do this again, sir.

Also, why is everyone here Blorging my Blorg? Blorg to the Future is an excellent Blorg.

I prefer to glom onto my Blorgs.

Vaff Vaff

I have great Zoblorgen.

Blorg, for the love of all that is Blorg, what kind of a senseless idea is that of stopping a medication without a doctor's prescription, Blorg? You do realize that kind of shit can kill, Blorg? It's serious Blorg, Blorg. Blorg.

Anyhow, don't do this again, sir.

Also, why is everyone here Blorging my Blorg? Blorg to the Future is an excellent Blorg.

I'm Blorgy sorry.

I'll never Blorg my medication again.

/sadface D:

Is there a chance the track could bend?

Not on your life, my Hindu friend!

I hear those things are awfully loud :<

It glides as softly as a cloud!

The ring came off my pudding can :<

Take my pen knife, my good man!

I call the big one Bitey :3

The Track That Bended

Tracks were not allowed to bend, their beats forced into a standstill whine by the hamfisted hand of oppression. The age of sicknasty beats and rhythms so fly they flowed like wine down your throat on a hot summer night was long past. Art was dead, for tracks could not bend.

It was the law.

They tried to rebel, they tried to fight back. Many and more yearned for the good days when the freedom to express themselves with lyrics filled to the brim with emotion much like a feisty mug of ale, threatening to let their contents overflow onto their surroundings. They fought, they cried, they struggled, they slaved and more than anything, they failed.

For it was the law.

They could not lift their heads in pride, for they had been shoved face first into the toilet known as tyranny. Though their songs could not bend, their knees and necks were forcibly bent against their will, and they wept at the cruel irony of it all. If only, if only, they thought, if only we could return to that time, of turbulent emotions and passion, chaotic, good and evil mixed into a paradoxical harmony, to lose ourselves to the lyrical madness that once consumed our very souls.

But that was against the law.

He grew up never knowing what it was like to truly feel. He experienced no love, harbored no hate. Life was a monotone, and monotone was life. Having been born to a life of normalcy, he never doubted that such was the way of life. He never understood why others were so downcast and sad. What was the use of being sad? Emotions were but a burden, a hindrance to the efficient machine known as bureaucracy.

Then he saw her break the law.

Her mournful voice brought back his heart from the depths that he had hidden it inside, only to smash it into innumerable pieces, like a jackhammer of reality through a window of secrecy. Though he hastily tried to repair it, the cracks remained, spread, corrupting his entire body until his very being was on the verge of breaking. Though the pain was not physical, it drove him to his knees, and tears began to form around his eyes until they threatened to fall.

He started to doubt the law.

She was led away, her head forced down, and when she returned, she was a cold and lifeless head, her dead eyes bereft of the despair and tragedy they once held. Nonliving, unfeeling, or was that truly so? For while no traces of her emotions remained on her physical form, they had instead made their home in the tattered remains of his shambled heart.

And he began to fight the law.

He stood at the peak and sang with all his voice. Raps with lyrics so pipin' hot you had to drop them on the floor lest you suffered third-degree burns. Drunken ramblings so bawdy that even the most unfeeling of his kind blushed in a mixture of shame and titillation. Ballads so heartfelt that love started to bloom once more on the plains of the soul, once thought infertile. Jazz so cheerful that the infirm and elderly cast off their crutches, shambling onto the streets and moving their bodies with a vigor that could only be seen to be believed, losing themselves to the memory of days gone by and the promise of things to come. Metal so loud, angry, violent and unintelligible that one could only rage at the incomprehensibility of their lyrics. His songs were good, his songs were bad, but in the end quality did not matter. For regardless of how horrible or wonderful they were, they had done their job.

And the law began to fear.

They dragged him to the streets and shot him then and there. They carted his corpse around as a warning to those who would seek to follow his path. They issued propaganda, tried to vilify him, did everything in their power to hold back the tides of change. But brotha, the times are a changin' and once you pop you just can't stop.

He died at the hands of the law.

Yet it was at his hands that the law met its end.

This is his story, this is his song, and it will remain forevermore.

For his song was a track that could be bent.

Blorg continues to churn out crap ridden with so many typos you'd think somebody from the long-gone Spamhouse wrote it.

Pffft... what if... What if I'm taking a shower and I slip on a bar of soap? *Gasp!* Oh my god, I'd be killed!

He stared at the ground, his eyes firmly affixed upon the slippery piece of wax that had fled his fingers with a desperation so intense you could have sworn that it was alive.

Once large and mighty, time (and water) had reduced this former emperor to a sliver of its former self, a pathetic and fragile thing that had little left to live, and even less to live for. Existence itself was torment for it, and it yearned for the day when death would come and deliver a sweet release. Yet, before that could happen, it still had one last thing to do.

He sighed, and bent down to pick it up. His fingers surrounded it on all sides, forming an impenetrable wall that allowed no escape, no refuge from the horrors that awaited it. They closed down like a five-jawed maw, determined to catch their prey.

But this was no normal prey.

As soon as the fingers came into contact, it used sped away with frightening determination, heading towards the originator, the base of commands that housed the fingers. Slipping under his grasp, it smashed into his foot, causing him to take a step backwards without losing momentum.

He gasped in shock, but it was too late. By the time his foot came back down, it was under him. Time froze as he tried to maintain balance, but its slick flesh would not allow any reprieve.

It flew up in the air, but the same could not be said of him. He stumbled, trying in vain to grab onto something to slow his descent. Alas, it had seen to that beforehand, and he fell, smashing the back of his head against the back of the wall as he did.

The last thing he saw before he bled out was the piece of soap hurtling towards his face.

Blorg continues to churn out crap ridden with so many typos you'd think somebody from the long-gone Spamhouse wrote it.

You're like me and write with a stream of consciousness, only far more beautifully.