Sordid Humor Puns

Dr Seuss

It was a cold day in May, and the clocks were striking thirteen. BioticWhisper, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.

The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about seventeen, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features.Biotic made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and Biotic, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. MARIOFOLI IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.

Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of figures which had something to do with the production of pig-iron. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the right-hand wall. Biotic turned a switch and the voice sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguishable. The instrument (the telescreen, it was called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uniform of the party. His face was naturally bright white, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.

Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world looked cold. Down in the street little eddies of wind were whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were plastered everywhere. The blackmoustachio'd face gazed down from every commanding corner. There was one on the house-front immediately opposite. MARIOFOLI IS WATCHING YOU, the caption said, while the dark eyes looked deep into Biotic's own. Down at streetleve

"We would wish you godspeed, but that seems ill-suited for your endeavor. So instead, we wish you success and a safe return, without appeal to any gods. We are all of us toppling idols. They have already fallen in the hearts and minds of those who are privy to your dark revelation. But you, you will bring them crashing down before you, in person. You will be the greatest revolutionary the world has ever known. But remember this, Sir Agnes Manteo: history remembers its iconoclasts, but not always fondly."

Mike Shel’s Iconoclasts series has undergone a dramatic metamorphosis over its three volumes. Aching God drew me in with its layered history, focused plot, terrific dungeons, and a well-developed cast of heroes and gods. Sin Eater shattered boundaries, introducing us to an expansive world with shifting environments, dangerous quests, new character focus and a bombshell ending that changed everything. If Aching God was a D&D module then Sin Eater was a full-fledged campaign. Idols Fall had some big shoes to fill. Well, it’s time to sharpen your swords and lather your horses, because Idols Fall is a god-murdering, throne-grabbing, dungeon crawling rip of a read. There is a balanced mix of heart and horror, and a nagging dread that anything could happen on any given page. And it often did.

While there are many stories that reference mad gods, this book leans further in by telling the story of humans on a path of vengeance to kill these devious deities. We rejoin Agnes Manteo and her talking Djao sword right where Sin Eater ended, returning from her long journey. Meanwhile, Ilanda, the rightful crown heiress, attempts to claim her throne after her kingdom descends into chaos following the fallout of the last book’s events. While Agnes aims to return to the Barrowlands for her mission of wrath with companions new and old, Ilanda and her distant, border-defending uncle try to quell a horror-infused rebellion from a meddlesome rival kingdom. There is also a new wild card sect of religious fanatics who are torching cities across the land, because why would anyone need a breather in all this chaos. Tough rookie season for Ilanda, no doubt.

"Agnes’ faith was in tatters, too, but how would she feel if she had dedicated her entire life to a god’s cause, knowing that it was all a deception, a sordid con?"

Welcome scenes of philosophy, humor, odd character moments, and sheer madness are spread throughout the story. A hilarious dinner par

https://boards.fool.com/paid-stock-bashers-lp-13645949.aspx

Author: TimDJ 📷 📷 📷 📷

Number: of 261506

Subject: Paid stock-bashers (LP)

Date: 11/7/2000 4:02 AM

By Tom Martin
aka “Steve Tracy”
aka “Firebird_1965”

Today I want to come clean about something I feel very badly about. I
cannot undo some of the things I have done, but hopefully this message
will prevent other such occurrences in the future.

I am a paid basher.

Yes, it is true. Today is my last day at this company; I'm moving on
to a new job. But before I go, I want to explain a few things because
this just isn't right and I won't feel good about myself until I
expose this sham. It's hurt too many people and I don't want it on my
conscience anymore. I can no longer live with a lie.

I work for a company called Franklin, Andrews, Kramer & Edelstein in
Stamford, CT. Basically, it's a Boiler Room much like the one in the
movie of the same name. The idea behind my group is to bash the price
of a company's stock down low enough to where the group of investors
who retained our company's services can buy the stock
really cheap and perhaps even take it over all together.

There are approximately 70 people at the company divided into several
groups. My group, consisting of 5 people, is responsible for BIFS.
While I probably shouldn't give any names of anyone working here now,
what the heck, I'm leaving here, so what can they do – sue me? Ha! I
can tell you that GUTTWRENCH was part of my group until he left last
week, as was Richardphx. Others who have been part of this include
early
bashers like Epiphonics and Simontaz. You may be interested to know
that some hypsters, such as Amato7 and BIFWATCHER, have also been part
of the scam (more on that later).

There are several companies engaged in the bashing business – ours is
not the only one. However, I can tell you that not every basher in
here is a paid basher. Having done this for two years, I can usually
tell who is a paid basher and who is merely someone having a little
fun. While unpaid bashers have a different motive than someone like
me, they can be unwilling accomplices to helping me achieve my
ultimate goal and they also spread rumor and confusion throughout a
room, which also

The funeral director was asking us what we think Mum should wear in her casket.

Mum always loved to wear sarongs (fabric wraps that go around the torso and drape downward a bit like a long skirt would), so my uncle suggested that she wear a sarong in there.

The funeral director looked a bit confused, as did some of our family members, to which my uncle added:

"What's sarong with that?"

I started laughing like an idiot. He was proud of it too. The funeral director was rather shocked. We assured her, and our more proper relatives, that Mum would've absolutely loved the joke (which is very true).

His delivery was perfect. I'll never forget the risk he took. We sometimes recall the moment as a way help cushion the blows of the grieving process.

--Edit-- I appreciate the condolences. I'm doing well and the worst is behind me and my family. But thanks :)

--Edit-- Massive thanks for all the awards and kind words. And the puns! Love 'em.

I would have a daughter

Capital of Ireland

It's Dublin everyday

http://m.imgur.com/ImM3RWz

But Bill kept the Windows

True story; it even happened last night. My 5-year-old son walks up behind me and out of the blue says, "hey."

I turn to him and say, "yeah, kiddo? What's up?"

He responds, "it's dead grass."

I'm really confused and trying to figure out what's wrong and what he wants from me. "What? There's dead grass? What's wrong with that?"

.

.

.

He says, totally straight-faced, "hay is dead grass," and runs off.

You officially hit rock bottom

>“Love is not when you are aroused by someone, it’s when you are afraid for that person.”

Vita Nostra by Sergey & Marina Dyachenko is a subtly ambitious novel that tackles several metaphysical concepts and challenges readers in untangling several of its layers. It's psychological mood, metaphors and unusual para-intellectualism dynamics worked so well that weeks after I read it I was left daydreaming much and haunted. I kept going back and forth on what I read and recounting what I thought I understood about it.

It's summertime in Russia and Sasha Samokhina is vacationing in a seaside town with her mother. The young teen is pleasantly enjoying the weather, sand and the humble pleasures the boardwalk has to offer. However things take an ominous turn when she is confronted by a dark stranger and is tasked with what seems to be unusual but inane physical missions; upon completion of each task she is awarded with gold coins, however, compensation received is regurgitated from her own mouth. Upon failure from her first task, a love interest that Sasha's mother has befriended on the summer vacation suffers a heart attack, thus sets into play a cruel paranormal game of extortion her life has now entered.

The plot is set on the premise of recruiting Sasha into a special college, The Institute of Special Technologies, a vague moniker to be sure but in keeping with many more abstract elements that lie ahead. The school is for students of unique potential, however, unlike other fantasy stories about schools of magic, this one has super fine print in the application for enrollment—get good grades and keep your mouth shut or horrible things will happen to you or your loved ones.

Needless to say, the curriculum is unorthodox and consists of a mix of scholarly and non-traditional pseudoscience techniques. We watch students journey through their years of regimental training and growth from semester to semester.

This is a book that encourages you to stroll along the gloomy halls of the abstract. Franz Kafka would be proud playing the headmaster role here, dragging the protagonist, Sasha, and her peers through dizzying trials and tribulations with absurd reasons. Why have they all been forced to take part in this sordid scheme? What evil conflict or greater threat lies beyond the secret veil of this dark society? Is Sasha the chosen one? We see where we've come from, but where are our clues for what lies forward, or is this just a journey of mystery of the mi

And then you will all be sorry.

No it doesn't.

He's that one creepy and unpleasant uncle, with whom we may sympathize with later on in the game... or that's what I thought. Now, I believe that he's so awfully disgusting that he may be able to scare away broodmothers. Let's take a look of the few things he says.

When you're a female Hawke and you romance Isabela, this is what your sordid uncle has to say:

>So, I hear you’re slipping it to that pirate slut from the Hanged Man. What’s that like? Two women? I’ve always wondered...

There's a lot to unpack here, but let's just throw the whole suitcase.

Let's also move on to his comment about male Hawke and Fenris romance.

> So, you're into elves, huh? I guess I don't have to ask which one of you's the girl.

Dear Gamlen, the point of a MLM relationship is that there's no girl involved.

Let's now see what other people say about him. These two dialogue come from the Mark of the Assassin DLC.

>Isabela: Would you tell your uncle to leave me alone? He's often... inappropriate.
>
>Purple Hawke: You find something inappropriate?
>
>Isabela: Extremely so! It's... rather repulsive, actually. Please talk to him.
>
>Purple Hawke: But it's more entertaining if I don't.
>
>Isabela: Hawke!
>
>Purple Hawke: You have pretty eyes.
>
>Isabela: Oh, you're impossible!

>Bethany: Uncle Gamlen's been sneaking into my room. He thinks I don't notice, but he's not exactly a master criminal
>
>Purple Hawke: Uh, does that mean I should stop doing that too?
>
>Bethany: Gross!
>
>Bethany: It's more pathethic than anything untoward. As far as I can tell, he's been going through my things for loose coin. I'm missing a silver eight.

... actually never mind, the title of the biggest creep probably belongs to humorous Hawke.

Now it’s syncing.

Edit 2: Check out this video by u/feanturii summarizing this incident!

Edit: went in and corrected the number of Holocaust victims.

A word of caution: this write-up will discuss Nazism and Nazi symbolism. The Holocaust is also mentioned. I’m going to throw a trigger warning for anti Semitism here in case anyone needs it.

Nee nee Papa context wo choudai

Before I begin this sordid tale of a photoshoot gone horribly wrong, I believe that it is important to establish some context regarding what the hell Hetalia is and why it was and still is such a lightning rod for controversy and wank.

Axis Powers Hetalia is a webcomic created by one Hidekaz Himaruya and it is basically a series of comic strips telling of the many (mis)adventures of a bunch of personified nations. It was initially set during WWII, but has since branched out from that era and been renamed Hetalia World Stars. The comics are based around real history, but the main focus is on small, weird moments in history. As a result, the tone of the series is light and humorous and the darker moments in history like the Holocaust are not discussed (save for a tasteless throwaway line that was added to the English dub of the anime and that can be found nowhere in the original source material). Depending on who you ask, this is either a wise choice because a light and goofy comic about the genocide of roughly 17 million people would be in extremely poor taste (to put it politely), or an ill begotten erasure or outright whitewashing of the more harrowing parts of history.

In addition to its subject matter, Hetalia’s cast of characters also routinely received a fair bit of criticism, and the one most relevant to this story is Germany. Germany, though he is depicted as an angry, socially stunted young man who views nearly everything through a military lens, is an overall likeable character, and since this series was (at least initially) set in WWII, there was a great deal of concern regarding this characterization. Was it really appropriate to make a character representing a nation that had committed outright genocide during the time that the series was set such a likeable dude? Himaruya went to great lengths to avoid portraying Germany as a card-carrying Nazi officer and even implied that he wasn’t overly fond of Adolf Hitler, but was that enough? While the vast majority of Germany’s fans are not Nazis or Nazi sympathizers, the debate regarding the cha

This post is intended as a mere series of stubs for GM's in search of themed villains for their Night City adventures: the Daedras of Night City. As such one can expect to find basic information about each of them: their goal, means, location, occupation, and themed reward.

As usual, these stubs are provided freely and with the aim of sparking ideas for your adventures rather than to be used strictly as such. More info in the comments below.

Azura

Balance between Night and Day

For months now, Azura has been working both side of the law on the streets: selling tips on baddies to the cops, and vice-versa. A lucrative if perilous game. But maybe her real gain is not counted in ebbies, but in influence over the city? Nevertheless, Azura's goal is to protect balance between both sides, ensuring no one gets to claim the upper hand more than temporarily. And she's always looking for extra help...

If you're interested, try hitching a cab ride in Watson Dev, at either dawn or dusk. Look for a woman with purple hair and star shaped tats. After that, you're on your own. Maybe she'll ask you to work for, or against, the law. Or even another Prince; better be ready. She's rumored to carry a tool able to analyze and store the complete genetic profile of any individual at the merest contact, which would be a cool reward.

Boethiah

Deceit, Secret, Conspiracy, and Illegal Overthrow of Authority

This particular one likes to delve away from prying eyes, not for the sake of privacy, but for conspiracy. His only interest lies in power and more precisely in taking it away from authority figures. To him, anyone in position to rule Night City is fair game. Maybe you would like to help him. Or maybe you have a target for your very personal vendetta. Boethiah is the one to contact, if you don't think about the price.

If you have the guts to take that road, head into South Night City and push open the door from the Slammer. Boethiah is said to have a fondness for fighting pits, picking winners for his personal guard. So finding Boethiah there shouldn't be difficult, just look for the largest, toughest, meanest gato in the room. Fight well, refuse to bend the knee and maybe he'll offer you his favorite toy: a custom, neon-gold mono-katana.

Clavicus Vile

Deals, Pacts, Bargains, Serenity through Wish Fulfillment

Few may not know it, but many in Night City have been tempted by some of Clavicus Vile's bargains under one form or another. No one

He replied, "Well, stop going to those places then!"

She said how do you know he was headed to work?

I will find you. You have my Word.

Because he wanted space

Edit: Thank you for the awards.

“thank you for your cervix.”

...sails are going through the roof.

Mods said I'm a cereal reposter...

A taxi

He thought homes were built, not born.

Wait. Sorry, wrong sub.

Wookie mistake.

Theoretical Fizz-ics

It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.

The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.

Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of figures which had something to do with the production of pig-iron. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the right-hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguishable. The instrument (the telescreen, it was called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.

Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world looked cold. Down in the street little eddies of wind were whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were plastered everywhere. The blackmoustachio'd face gazed down from every commanding corner. There was one on the house-front immediately opposite. BIG BROTHER IS WAT

Chapter 1

It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Winston Smith, his chin nuzzled into his breast in an effort to escape the vile wind, slipped quickly through the glass doors of Victory Mansions, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of gritty dust from entering along with him.

The hallway smelt of boiled cabbage and old rag mats. At one end of it a coloured poster, too large for indoor display, had been tacked to the wall. It depicted simply an enormous face, more than a metre wide: the face of a man of about forty-five, with a heavy black moustache and ruggedly handsome features. Winston made for the stairs. It was no use trying the lift. Even at the best of times it was seldom working, and at present the electric current was cut off during daylight hours. It was part of the economy drive in preparation for Hate Week. The flat was seven flights up, and Winston, who was thirty-nine and had a varicose ulcer above his right ankle, went slowly, resting several times on the way. On each landing, opposite the lift-shaft, the poster with the enormous face gazed from the wall. It was one of those pictures which are so contrived that the eyes follow you about when you move. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU, the caption beneath it ran.

Inside the flat a fruity voice was reading out a list of figures which had something to do with the production of pig-iron. The voice came from an oblong metal plaque like a dulled mirror which formed part of the surface of the right-hand wall. Winston turned a switch and the voice sank somewhat, though the words were still distinguishable. The instrument (the telescreen, it was called) could be dimmed, but there was no way of shutting it off completely. He moved over to the window: a smallish, frail figure, the meagreness of his body merely emphasized by the blue overalls which were the uniform of the party. His hair was very fair, his face naturally sanguine, his skin roughened by coarse soap and blunt razor blades and the cold of the winter that had just ended.

Outside, even through the shut window-pane, the world looked cold. Down in the street little eddies of wind were whirling dust and torn paper into spirals, and though the sun was shining and the sky a harsh blue, there seemed to be no colour in anything, except the posters that were plastered everywhere. The blackmoustachio'd face gazed down from every commanding corner. There was one on the house-front immediately opposite. BIG

But now I stand corrected.