The Master Beard
This is how last night's Halo rendezvous went. Andy, Cricket, Kevin and I met online for an hour's worth of
Wake up (this is Alyssa's term) on the side of the field, pick up battle rifle, run across courtyard—and have own head bisected by a hazy sniper trail.
Wake up again, now just above the rocket launcher, and leap down to get it. During fall, feel searing pain in crotch—notice that crotch has been blasted with a plasma overcharge. Receive hail of bullets, die.
Wake up next to the sniper rifle. Run toward sniper rifle only to receive a rocket in the throat.
Wake up strapped to a gurney, somewhere inside one of the bases. Blue team members stand around you in tribal/cabal gear, holding short spears and jars of leeches. They apply spears and leeches. You die slowly, while your soul is commended to the Dark One . . .
It was godawful. Godawful.
The opposing team's Wraith was laying waist to the lot of us, pummeling our scraggly defenses with plasma. After countless failures I happened to help kill the pilot, and I stole the Wraith, and then—after that thing had trampled over everyone and everything—someone fired one more grenade at it, with me in it, and the whole contraption finally exploded.
. . .
In case you missed my post the other day about the Michelle Rominger phone survey—Rominger shaved his beard. It truly was the Greatest and Best Beard I've ever seen. It was the Master Beard. It was the One Beard to Rule Them All. That beard traveled where no beard had traveled before. That beard was edible, eatible. It was formed by a Jedi night out of crystals and metal. It was the last beard of its kind. It was taken by the Nazis, for a while, in an attempt to find the secrets of everlasting life.
Man, it was an incredible beard.
. . .
I am trying to formulate, like a master strategist, my weekend plans. I may leave this town and all its hobos behind. What are you people doing? What do scuzzy, scuzzy people like you do on the weekend? Collect your food stamps and get wasted on generic Zebra Cakes? Put pennies on the tracks and make nickel bets on which way they'll fly? Have pop can scavenging contests?
. . .
I recently discovered countless phone messages from . . . Dave's roommates? Sorry to have missed your calls, Dave's roommates. I promise that if you call again, I will be here. For you. Nude. With a bottle of oils, and another bottle of melted Velveeta.
Wake up (this is Alyssa's term) on the side of the field, pick up battle rifle, run across courtyard—and have own head bisected by a hazy sniper trail.
Wake up again, now just above the rocket launcher, and leap down to get it. During fall, feel searing pain in crotch—notice that crotch has been blasted with a plasma overcharge. Receive hail of bullets, die.
Wake up next to the sniper rifle. Run toward sniper rifle only to receive a rocket in the throat.
Wake up strapped to a gurney, somewhere inside one of the bases. Blue team members stand around you in tribal/cabal gear, holding short spears and jars of leeches. They apply spears and leeches. You die slowly, while your soul is commended to the Dark One . . .
It was godawful. Godawful.
The opposing team's Wraith was laying waist to the lot of us, pummeling our scraggly defenses with plasma. After countless failures I happened to help kill the pilot, and I stole the Wraith, and then—after that thing had trampled over everyone and everything—someone fired one more grenade at it, with me in it, and the whole contraption finally exploded.
. . .
In case you missed my post the other day about the Michelle Rominger phone survey—Rominger shaved his beard. It truly was the Greatest and Best Beard I've ever seen. It was the Master Beard. It was the One Beard to Rule Them All. That beard traveled where no beard had traveled before. That beard was edible, eatible. It was formed by a Jedi night out of crystals and metal. It was the last beard of its kind. It was taken by the Nazis, for a while, in an attempt to find the secrets of everlasting life.
Man, it was an incredible beard.
. . .
I am trying to formulate, like a master strategist, my weekend plans. I may leave this town and all its hobos behind. What are you people doing? What do scuzzy, scuzzy people like you do on the weekend? Collect your food stamps and get wasted on generic Zebra Cakes? Put pennies on the tracks and make nickel bets on which way they'll fly? Have pop can scavenging contests?
. . .
I recently discovered countless phone messages from . . . Dave's roommates? Sorry to have missed your calls, Dave's roommates. I promise that if you call again, I will be here. For you. Nude. With a bottle of oils, and another bottle of melted Velveeta.
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