Best of the Fray

No limits Boyo.

greeneggsnham — Sat, 04 Jul 2009 04:49:23 GMT

There is no purely frayfessional relationship. One day we'll man-hug for sure. Maybe a threesome with Dallas.

Who the fuck is Clayton Townley and why does he like 'Transformers'? Sure Spielberg was an executive producer. So why not just watch Spielberg?

Re: Hee-Haw.

Zeus-Boy — Sat, 04 Jul 2009 04:36:53 GMT

What were you doing on the ground on my island besides listening to your Mandarin missus, fantasizing about Polish girlies, wearing your underwear as outerwear, farting up the whole place and dreaming about the Fray? Were you blindfolded the entire time? Did you ever unplug the iPod ear-phones? Better yet, who let you onto my island? Next time, forego the package holiday, give me a buzz and I'll show you places your cartoonish imagination never dreamt of ...

On second thoughts, maybe, strike that, your homoeroticism and your doggy-pissing on my posts as well as your S-M infatuation with the reluctant man-hugger JD are way creepy, dude.

Let's keep our 'relationship' purely frayfessional.

Now, fuck off! You're really beginning annoy me again.

[Just kiddin', sweetie.]

Hee hee!

greeneggsnham — Sat, 04 Jul 2009 04:02:32 GMT

I suppose Gaelic is what the Gaels called it, the folks who lived in it, who spoke it as a mother tongue.

I went all round your island and never heard anything but English and Mandarin and perhaps a little Polish. That means something to you. I know how much stock you put in seeing/hearing things on the ground and not reading them in books.

Helicopters, tubs, underwear as outerwear, Gaelic and gas masks--just cartoon images for fun on the Fray.

Guess it hit you hard, old chap,

Zeus-Boy — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 22:38:31 GMT

Losing that debate.

One small clarification: In Ireland, we call the native language Irish, not Gaelic. Gaelic is what the Scots speak. It's been that way for .. O ... almost a century now.

There Can Be Only One

greeneggsnham — Fri, 03 Jul 2009 20:37:14 GMT

The arthritic assemblage squints at each other in semi-recognition through Coke-Bottle glasses in the hot Arizona sun. And the sun is definitely hot these days. In the year 2050 global warming has been proceeding apace for almost half a century since Al Gore pointed out that inconvenient truth to the unwashed masses.

A small crowd of octogenarians, nonagenarians and centenarians waits on the edge of the helipad as the pilot of the craft that will take them to the Fraymeet pushes his walker toward them with glacial speed. As they wait they talk of times past as the aged often do.

An old fellow wearing a monocle and Batman pajamas with a black Lycra Speedo swimming suit on top of them waives at an ancient member of the bench in his judge’s robe.

Urquhart: “I was happy to hear that all eight Presidents Gosselin unanimously nominated you for the vacant seat on the Supreme Court. Congratulations Fritz.”

Fritz Gerlich: “Yes, well, now that a Hispanic-American, a Native American, an East-Asian American, a South-Asian American, an openly gay judge, conjoined twins, and John Walker Lindh the American Taliban have served on SCOTUS, the Presidents figured it was time to nominate the first Frayster Justice to the Court. I’ve been assured that I’ll be confirmed once the Senate finishes reading all my opinions from the bench and on BotF.”

Urquhart, turning to an old geezer wearing a WWI gas mask and seated in a motorized wheelchair: “I thought the Cubbies might finally pull it out last year. I was sorry to see that they believe in maintaining tradition.”

Muffled sobs emanate from within the mask and the old fellow slumps down into his chair, his fragile shoulders shaking slightly. A gnarled old leprechaun is trying to follow the conversation by holding a cone up to one of his wrinkled, hairy ears.

“Eh?”

Urquhart: “I was just saying to Schmutzie that the Cubs still suck, Zeus-Boy.”

Schmutzie: “You have to speak into the horn; otherwise he won’t know what you’re saying.”

Urquhart: “The poor deaf bastard. We’re all fallin’ apart aren’t we Schmutz old boy.”

Schmutzie: “He’s not deaf, stupid, he’s Irish. Once Douglas Hyde breathed life back into the Irish language English died a quick and unlamented death on that magical isle. Z-B has always used software to convert his Gaelic into the English we read on BotF. Jesus haven’t you ever been to Ireland? You could go for months without hearing an English syllable spoken and even then it’d be coming out of a tourist’s mouth.”

Zeus-Boy holds up the listening horn to his ear again. On its side is printed “Babelfish Translat-O-Phone.” He speaks several paragraphs of what sounds like a Celtic language into another, smaller horn-shaped devise at his mouth and a box on his chest spits out, “Yeah ya fookin’ eedjit. No one’s spoken English as a vernacular on my island for nigh on a century and a half.”

Fritz Gerlich: “Why isn’t Ellen and Ollie here? She always enjoyed the Fraymeets.”

Urquhart: “She fell and broke a hip. The police said she’d have made it to the phone if she’d had a couple of more days but her pets ate her before that.”

The group ponders this in silence as the ancient helicopter pilot finally reaches them.

“Saddle up boys and let’s get this show on the road.”

The ancients slowly, gingerly scramble into the helo, their joints creaking audibly. The pilot takes off and the vintage UH-1N Twin Huey ascends over the Grand Canyon, climbing higher and higher into the sky.

Zeus-Boy: “I wonder who’ll be voted ‘Best of the Fraysters’ this time around.”

The old pilot has maintained a neutral expression until now. But upon hearing the ancient clurichaun the old man’s eyes harden and narrow. He reaches under the Huey’s dashboard and pushes a red button. A trap door under the passenger section opens dumping the Fraysters into the void below. They spin in the wind currents above the Canyon, yelling deprecations at the pilot and shaking their bony fists at the helo as they drop toward the end of their long lives.

One old chap in an antique iron tub waives his loofah at the sky and screams in a slightly effeminate British accent, “I always suspected you were an ICP’er Ryerson you old sod!” He hurtles into the side of the canyon’s walls exploding into a cloud of reddish dust and grayish water.

A serene look settles on the pilot’s face. He reaches into the Huey’s glove compartment and pulls out a plastic crown covered with sequins; it reads “Senior Prom 1964.” “Still the King,” he whispers to himself and flies into the sunset.

Михаи́л

greeneggsnham — Sat, 20 Jun 2009 06:19:27 GMT

As the large man walks down the hallways of the Kremlin others quickly jump out of his way. He wears the uniform of a Colonel of the Vozdushno-Desantnye Vojska, the Soviet airborne troops, but those who know Boris Badenov know that he is actually in Spetsgruppa Alfa, an elite and secret anti-terrorist unit. Colonel Badenov strides through the center of Soviet power with an air of thinly veiled disdain for the lesser men around him and a supreme confidence in his abilities and place in the world. And this place is the heart of a Red Empire that still stretches from Central Europe to the Pacific Coast, unbowed by the defeat and upheaval of later years. The Colonel is headed to see the man at the very center of that heart, Leonid Brezhnev, Secretary of the Communist Party of the U.S.S.R. and Chairman of the Presidium of the Supreme Soviet.

The Soviet invasion of Afghanistan is still in its infancy, a move by Russia to score the winning goal in the Great Game. The opening phase of the invasion has gone well enough but now dark clouds threaten its success and Chairman Brezhnev is growing increasingly concerned. And so he has called Colonel Badenov to his situation room for a briefing on certain aspects of the campaign.

Colonel Badenov: “Colonel Boris Biyotchevich Badenov reporting as ordered Your Excellency!”

Chairman Brezhnev: “You may be seated Colonel. Now tell me why the world’s largest army cannot defeat a group of ragtag mountain savages and religious fanatics in the asshole of the world!”

Colonel Badenov: “I can assure you Your Excellency the Red Army will…”

Chairman Brezhnev: “Enough! I did not summon you here for propaganda! Tell me what’s really happening there.”

Colonel Badenov: “We are losing many more Hind-D attack helicopters and their crews then we anticipated Excellency.”

Chairman Brezhnev: “It’s those damned Stinger Missiles the Yankee imperialists are supplying to the Mujahids isn’t it?”

Colonel Badenov: “Actually the Stingers are somewhat over-rated Excellency. Uh, I think it would be easier to show you the problem.”

Badenov snaps his fingers and an enlisted attendant dims the lights and turns on a movie projector that has been set up for the meeting. Both men turn to watch the flickering images on the screen before them.

The film shows a field in a mountain valley with an Afghan village nearby. A group of mounted men play buzkashi, the national sport of Afghanistan, which entails fighting over the dead body of a goat while on horseback. In the foreground a couple of women stumble around in burkhas, the full-length veils worn by Pashtun tribeswomen in that part of the world.

Colonel Badenov: “We were supplied this newsreel by our operative in the war-zone, Geraldo Rivera.”

Suddenly a large Soviet Hind-D attack helicopter materializes from behind a hillock and advances toward the Afghans. The tribesmen begin fumbling for their weapons while the women run toward the village. The Hind-D moves steadily forward, but then begins to rock violently. Its side door opens and the helo’s crewmen are hurled out of it to plunge twenty meters down onto the rocky ground below. Those that survive the fall are quickly dispatched by the Pashtun militants. Several moments later a German Shepherd flies out the door and falls to its death. Some of the horsemen start up their game of buzkashi using the dog’s body.

Colonel Badenov, choking back tears: “Schmutzie! My beloved Schmutzie! She was the best damned attach bitch to ever serve in the Red Army.”

Chairman Brezhnev: “What the hell just happened?”

Colonel Badenov: “It appears a great warrior has infiltrated our ranks Excellency. He poses as a Hind crewman and then assassinates the rest of the crew by throwing them out of the ‘copter once it is at a certain altitude. He is quickly depleting the ranks of our heliborne troops. As yet we have been unable to determine what he does with the helicopters themselves.”

Chairman Brezhnev: “Who is this man?”

Colonel Badenov: “We don’t know. He is a phantom. We only know his nom de guerre, ‘Mikhail.’”

Chairman Brezhnev: “Nothing else?”

Colonel Badenov: “Some say he is an anarchist trained by Carlos the Jackal and works for the Bureau Of Terrorism and Fear, a radical organization bent on undermining civilization itself. Others say he learned his skills on C.I.A. black helicopters where he threw American farmers to their deaths in order to undermine popular resistance to the Endangered Species Act. And some say he is not even a man at all but is an incarnation of the Angel of Death himself fluttering over the Army of the Motherland on his rotary wings spreading death as a divine punishment for our hubris.”

Chairman Brezhnev’s thick mono-brow knits in disapproval at the religious references.

Chairman Brezhnev: “We must stop this madman! He could turn the entire tide of battle against us!”

The two men stare intently at the newsreel. The camera moves in for a close-up of the shadowy figure now piloting the helicopter.

Chairman Brezhnev: “What is that shining on his forehead, a radio headset?”

Colonel Badenov: “Uh, actually Excellency it looks sort of like a tiara!”

When you jumped the shark for me:

the ghost of a-z — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 07:16:41 GMT

The mysterious post you wrote to me about the plagiarism ("things you don't know" - inexact, but gist).

Say hello to my leetle frien'....

greeneggsnham — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 14:13:40 GMT

....locked for posterity....

Re: The thread was completely worthwhile

Zeus-Boy — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 09:55:38 GMT

Totally.

That greeneggs ... and not forgetting ... the ham is a friggin new fangled genius. I didn't appreciate it before ... when I had to spit a few hacks at him ... but now I see it ... Mine eyes have been opened.

Note to self: You're liking them ellipses way too much. Cut that shit the fuck out.

Many years later....

greeneggsnham — Thu, 18 Jun 2009 02:42:05 GMT

....somewhere deep in the tropics.

Three men sit at a table next to an Olympic size swimming pool on a palatial estate dominated by an immense colonial style mansion. Behind the massive pool looms a dark and menacing jungle.

A cultured, well-maintained, Mediterranean looking man with dead eyes sits across from the two other men. One of the two is skinny, dressed in a white suit and a loud Hawaiian shirt, his nervous rat-like face covered with beads of sweat. The second has brutal features highlighted by a long pale scar that splits an eyebrow and runs down one cheek all the way to the man's jawline. This man burns with an animal vitality and raw ambition. His open-throated shirt collar reveals numerous gold chains offset by dense black chest hair.

All three men speak English with phony Spanish accents.

Tony: "...Si Señor Sosa, we gonna take care of it. We gonna move all the fuckin' yeyo jou wan' into the States."

Omar: "What the fuck Tony? Frank didn't okay this. We gotta clear this with Frank first."

Sosa: "Señor Suarez, my associates can take you to my private airport and Learjet. I can have you in Miami in a few hours so that you may secure Señor Frank Lopez' permission to continue our negotiations."

Omar is escorted into the mansion while Sosa and Tony remain seated. Several minutes later a helicopter flies past and Omar Suarez is thrown out of it. He has a rope looped around his neck in a noose, the other end of the rope is tied inside the 'copter. He dangles grotesquely under the helicopter until its pilot flies off into the distance with Omar's limp body in tow.

Tony: "You guys killed Omar cause he was a chivato, right? You probably recognized him as the informer who put Vito Duval and the Ramos brothers, Nello and Gino, away for life, correcto?"

Sosa: "Not really. He seemed like a pretty nice guy to me actually. But my associates have informed me that he spilled his mohito as he was climbing into the helicopter. I just hired a new pilot, Señor Michael, an American. As a condition of his employment he required me to have the seats inside the helicopter re-upholstered in the finest Corinthian leather. I said, 'What is wrong with the Naugahyde seats the 'copter presently has? I find them quite fetching Señor Michael.' But Señor Michael said, quite angrily I might add, 'Naugahyde!? Do you realize that Naugahyde sticks to your ass when it gets hot? Look around! We live in a frigging jungle! How do you expect me to effectively move your yeyo under such conditions?'"

Tony: "Yes, well, Naugahyde does tend to do that in my experience."

Sosa: "Exactamente Tony, I could not argue with Señor Michael's logic. So I sprang for the fine Corinthian leather seats. Apparently Señor Michael did not take kindly to Omar's failure to control his mohito and the effect such spillage had on his new seats. I like you Tony, there is no lying in you and I also note that you keep a firm grip on your appletini. I hope you will not replicate Omar's mistake."

Tony: "Let's get this straight right now Patrón! I never liked or trusted Omar! One time that piece of chit ate a bunch of Moon Pies in my Cadillac and I had to get the whole fucking interior detailed to get rid of the crumbs. And I always use a fucking coaster! Just ask anybody in Miami. Sometimes I even lay down plastic sheeting! You fucking tell that to Señor Mike!"

Sosa, chuckling softly: "Okay, okay. I think you speak from the heart Montana. Salut!"

The men clink glasses and continue their negotiations as they stare into the green hell of twisting vines behind Sosa's estate....

Re: Obviously, a rare dud post.

dumb_blonde — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 23:29:06 GMT

It was a fine idea. I think everyone got too caught up in the spirit National Attack Fellow Posters Day & forgot to make good quality posts.

I didn't post anything because I couldn't think of anything clever.

I do like your option 3, that very well could be the case, considering how everyone is at everyone else's throats.

The thread was completely worthwhile

Dawn Coyote.. — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 23:28:21 GMT

if only for greeneggsnham's two responses.

Obviously, a rare dud post.

topazz_ — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 23:09:46 GMT

I'm shaken at my misjudgement. I pride myself in gauging the mood here and then serving up the grits. It all seemed so promising at first. What went wrong?

Let's examine:

1. A first reply by Jack Dallas is a guaranteed thread killer.

2. I underestimated how shy everyone is here.

3. Lots of posters were drunk and busy changing their urine-soaked sheets.

sorry, can't play

Isonomist — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 15:54:50 GMT

Never signed anyone's yearbook then, so it'd be a dishonor to all of my classmates to sign a virtual one now. I mean, if I did, you know, sign anyone's, I don't remember anyway.

Among the Mean Girls.......

Inkberrow — Wed, 17 Jun 2009 15:33:24 GMT

"Dear [insert name of ICPer]:

Please check your e-mail! Love,