If you woke up beside the above Escapist's avatar....
- Thread starter Sevre
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Cold coffee?
Coffee machines should be making it hot...
*goes and fiddles with them*
Oh...you'd been holding it for...never mind.
@NTD. No it wasn't a mirror. I may be mad, but I'm not an idiot.
[sub]Mr "my hair looked old in 1840, letalone today..." [/sub]
@Shock - yeah, went down real easy. That is, after I snuck up on him/me and knocked me/him out by clubbing him with a size-15.5 wrench.
Coffee machines should be making it hot...
*goes and fiddles with them*
Oh...you'd been holding it for...never mind.
@NTD. No it wasn't a mirror. I may be mad, but I'm not an idiot.
[sub]Mr "my hair looked old in 1840, letalone today..." [/sub]
@Shock - yeah, went down real easy. That is, after I snuck up on him/me and knocked me/him out by clubbing him with a size-15.5 wrench.
OOh, pretty lights...
@Shock -
'Ouch' because of what I did to me/him, or 'ouch' because of my little comment at my good (deceased) chum NTD?
@Tharwen - I know its a spanner and not a wrench in our nation. I just use wrench more
[sub] after someone in my skirmishing team pointed out the implications of me, the 'mech-edic' being nicknamed 'Spanner'...[/sub]
@Shock -
'Ouch' because of what I did to me/him, or 'ouch' because of my little comment at my good (deceased) chum NTD?
@Tharwen - I know its a spanner and not a wrench in our nation. I just use wrench more
[sub] after someone in my skirmishing team pointed out the implications of me, the 'mech-edic' being nicknamed 'Spanner'...[/sub]
Gives Scde2 a towel for the coffee.
@Shock
-Oh I'm sure I'll/he'll be fine. I'm usually fine about a day after I get clubbed in the head with a size 12.5 spanner.
[sub]or not. since he's roman, he only had basic tools, so perhaps he's not as used to being hit with spanners than I am. [/sub]
Once we work out how to get rid of him. And all the other twins. And the romans.
I'm sure you said theres something else...
@Shock
-Oh I'm sure I'll/he'll be fine. I'm usually fine about a day after I get clubbed in the head with a size 12.5 spanner.
[sub]or not. since he's roman, he only had basic tools, so perhaps he's not as used to being hit with spanners than I am. [/sub]
Once we work out how to get rid of him. And all the other twins. And the romans.
I'm sure you said theres something else...
@Shock...ok. Well, that...that explains a lot. Incase you haven't already, I'd stay away from the crypts. They appear to have made a rather large nest...
@Tharwen - agreed.
But...now I can't think of any either.
[sub]Aside from the spellings used by our glorious motherland (term used in 1902) all I can think of are rediculous Hollywood stereotypes, whatwhat! [/sub]
Will Scottish dae fur ya ladd? 'cos I thin' it will...
Och, I dinnae ken.
[sub] translations avaliable on request... [/sub]
[sub] also, I am half scottish, so I am legally able to do this. Yorkshire too. [/sub]
@Tharwen - agreed.
But...now I can't think of any either.
[sub]Aside from the spellings used by our glorious motherland (term used in 1902) all I can think of are rediculous Hollywood stereotypes, whatwhat! [/sub]
Will Scottish dae fur ya ladd? 'cos I thin' it will...
Och, I dinnae ken.
[sub] translations avaliable on request... [/sub]
[sub] also, I am half scottish, so I am legally able to do this. Yorkshire too. [/sub]
Oh, cheers. I'm a mechanic, not a miracle worker pest controller.
Robot zombies...shaped like dinosaurs...I know! I'll send in my zombie Optimus Prime! He seems to be able to deal with robot dinosaurs, so a zombie Prime should be able to do the job just aswell!
[sub]failing that...an army of robot toasters and kettles. [/sub]
Robot zombies...shaped like dinosaurs...I know! I'll send in my zombie Optimus Prime! He seems to be able to deal with robot dinosaurs, so a zombie Prime should be able to do the job just aswell!
[sub]failing that...an army of robot toasters and kettles. [/sub]
Erm...thats nice.
Evidently, the booze dispensers are running dry, so Doc can't get enough. Due to the sound of bad, out of tune folk music, I blame NotTheDM, for the theft of the booze.
Here Doc, take this fine Whiskey.
Evidently, the booze dispensers are running dry, so Doc can't get enough. Due to the sound of bad, out of tune folk music, I blame NotTheDM, for the theft of the booze.
Here Doc, take this fine Whiskey.
@Mad I'm just as Scottish as you, so don't try to pull that trick on me!
I shall now treat you all to Address to a Haggis by Robert Burns.
I shall now treat you all to Address to a Haggis by Robert Burns.
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!
Then, horn for horn,
they stretch an' strive:
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve,
Are bent lyke drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
"Bethankit!" 'hums.
Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him ower his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.
Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a haggis!
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.
His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!
Then, horn for horn,
they stretch an' strive:
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve,
Are bent lyke drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
"Bethankit!" 'hums.
Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?
Poor devil! see him ower his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.
Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a haggis!