Don’t say we didn’t warn you. According to the “I Write Like” internet toy,

“The first several hundred words of Sarah Palin’s “Going Rogue” read like H.P. Lovecraft. And she didn’t mention Cthulhu once.”

That spooky resemblance between HPL and Matt Drudge makes more sense now.

Wherefore art thou, refudiate? Sarah Palin as Shakespeare by Carolyn Kellogg [Los Angeles Times]
Image: “One Nation Under Cthulhu” A response, artist unknown (drop a line if you know the credit) to “One Nation Under God,” [Jon McNaughton]

Yeah, I was a space marine. 3rd Bughunters, and boy did we squash bugs. And all the idiots giving us crap for never really fighting in the war can go suck a cock. I’d like to see them crawling around in the service ducts of some navy liner, armed with a can of space raid, hunting Mercurian blood roaches because some idiot officer got his head torn off.

All that Arcturian pussy made up for it though.

Wowshank [War of 2345 Veterans Thread : Something Awful Forums]
ducts. [crossmyheart : DeviantArt]

Previously, from the War of 2345:
Scary as Hell and Better Than Sex
Close Encounters
Robophobia
Babykillers
Left Click and Pray
Google Droid Dustoff
Jetpack Bottleneck

As months passed, Helen began to deteriorate in a way generally reserved for corpses that have been carelessly left out in the rain. Keith decided he couldn’t deal with it anymore and moved out, packing his things and vanishing one day before anyone was the wiser. Nobody blamed him, naturally, but his departure served as a quiet signal: Helen Keller was dead, and it was never coming back. Chuck, too, made himself scarce for several weeks. Though not technically moved out, he had fled the state and was making no great efforts to return. This left Bond, Eric, and me alone in the house. Eric and I decided that the best way to deal with this situation was to never, ever leave our rooms. If either of us heard Bond active in the house, we would make it a point to vanish. Given a choice between having to deal with Bond and staying in one’s room as long as necessary for him to leave, we would pick the latter every time.

Having effectively ceded control of the house to Bond, we no longer took any pains whatsoever to keep it in running order. The living room rather quickly turned into a disgusting heap of trash, with moldy styrofoam containers . This was the kind of living room seen in documentaries about crackhouses. Bond roamed most of the house by himself all day, kicking the drifts of garbage into new configurations as he shuffled from place to place. Both the living room and kitchen were completely submerged under a layer of empty food and alcohol containers, and the house developed the kind of ant problem that could have only been adequately described by David Attenborough. Beard made a brief return somewhere around this point, stopping by only long enough to confer with Eric and I. He wasn’t coming back, he told us, and we didn’t blame him in the slightest. I’m not sure if he felt bad about how far Helen had fallen during the tenure of his replacement. If he did, he didn’t say.

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When I was in Eugene, I smoked my share of grass. I really didn’t have anything better to do, and I fell into my minor drug habit with a sort of bored reluctance. We had a nice (as far as such things go) waterpipe which sat on the mantlepiece in the living room, as though it were a benevolent overlord keeping tabs on our household activities. Bond, upon his arrival, decided that the bong (Which we had named Treebeard) was his. He could be seen using it almost constantly, often knocking on doors to beg for more weed. These requests would invariably be followed by “the Laugh” as though it somehow made the request less awkward or stupid. If it went missing, it could always be found in Bond’s room. This was provided he could be coerced into opening the door, which was intermittent at best.

One day, we got an idea. Bond was horrifically drunk again, and I ambled into the living room to take the slide-piece from the bong. If you’ve never used one before, this is the part that holds the bowl and is removed to allow unrestricted airflow. I pocketed it and put it in a safe place in my room, then walked out into the living room to see what happened. Terribly passive-aggressive of us, yes. The chance to rib at Bond for the entertainment of the household, however, was too great to pass up. Chuck and Eric bore witness to my crime, and the three of us sat and waited for the show to begin. It’s not that we were cruel exactly, we had all just had it with the situation by then and wanted to milk it for whatever it was worth.

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Apologies on the lateness this week. My scheming, shrieking, obese bastard of an editor has just forwarded me an itemized list, presented in the style of a military cargo manifest, of items she intends to put into my ass should I fail to “get that fucking story up right the shit now”. The number of times she’s used the word “fuck” in this message could probably get her brought up on war crimes charges. Many of the items on this list are either illegal or fictional, so I’m not sure who she thinks she’s trying to fool. It’s not like any of you idiots can read anyway.

Did he ever. They were the kind of friends who you’re most likely to get thrown in jail with. Not because you did anything clever or awesome, but because you’re all too goddamn stupid to not get caught. Bond’s friends took after him in a pretty bad way. There were several of them, and they all seemed to fit the “loser stoner asshole” mold pretty well. They came in varying degrees of dishevelment, betraying a lifestyle whose main challenges consisted of little more than trying to figure out where to get one’s next bag of weed. They would flood the house en masse every few days, consuming everything like a swarm of stoned locusts before retreating to Bond’s room to “jam”.

“Jamming” was what Bond called “playing every instrument at once and hoping they happen to be in the same key”. At least, that’s what it sounded like. It’s possible he was trying to summon demons to his room, since the cacophony that resulted would likely have been good for little else. People who were not of stout heart and hardy eardrums would be forced to flee to quieter areas of the house, or neighborhood. It is an important note, I think, to point out that “jamming with bros” and “Unique Sound” were two completely distinct realms of musical development. That the resulting noises sounded identical is irrelevant: These were projects unto themselves, and woe betide any wayward housemate who should confuse the two.

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Hey there, one from the 3/2701 checking in, anyone out there?

Anyway, I was the green WO in the 3rd, so I was in the rear of the formation. This is the only thing that saved me from their fucking auto turrets on mopup. Really “saved” is a euphemism for covered in the debris and detritus of thousands of bodies and ships. A lot of people call what the survivors did heroism. It was sheer stupidity. Instead of using maneuvering thrusters to drift out and away, we picked a convergence point, and over the course of two days rendezvoused 30 or so dropships in position to assault the capital. We didn’t have the defensive capabilities necessary to effect ship landings, so spacejumps were our only ticket to the surface.
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As I’ve said, Bond considered himself to be God’s Great Steaming Gift to music. He could constantly be heard in his room shredding awesome super-rad power chords on his Airline guitar, tossing his unwashed hair to the unstoppable musical power. He made it a point to open his windows as wide as they’d go as he “rehearsed” (his words), so that he could flood our hapless neighborhood with the musical revolution. Bond was the kind of musician who was convinced that everyone else in the world was clamoring over each other to hear his dulcet tones, on top of being too thick to understand such plebian concerns such as “noise laws” and “neighbors shouting at us to shut the fuck up”. This activity had almost gotten the cops called on us several times, and only when more than one of us went to his room to tell him to shut up, would he actually stop. Often he would realize that we were pounding on his door to get him to stop, turn up his music, and pretend that he couldn’t hear us.

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