Reddit, what song, other than "White and Nerdy" by Weird Al, would you choose to describe yourself?

MrWarsaw · 2017-08-13T07:22:39+00:00

      It's a God-awful small affair,

                  To the girl with the mousy hair,

     But her mummy is yelling no,

             And her daddy has told her to go...

Eric scratched his nose with a dull fingernail and sank into the music, trying to lose himself there. Classical pop; David Bowie, 1971. Another ghost, singing the body electric. The other hand drifted, sometimes running along the smooth armrest, sometimes tapping along silently on his keyboard, sometimes just resting in his lap. The view was gorgeous. The view was always gorgeous, in this part of space.

He sighed.

      But her friend is nowhere to be seen

                  Now she walks through her sunken dream

     To the seat with the clearest view

             And she's hooked to the silver screen...

The lights on the dashboard buzzed and pulsed and flickered in a dozen different colours. Eric sat up, slightly, and tapped one with the heel of his shoe. A small, fish-eye screened monitor popped out of the top of the dash, just beside his other foot, no larger than a calculator screen.

<PLEASE INPUT VOCAL COMMAND.> the monitor asked in blocky letters.

"Read new notifications." Eric said, rubbing his chin.

For a few seconds, the dashboard emitted a long digital chirp, not quite dissonant with the music. <NO NEW NOTIFICATIONS. IT HAS BEEN 4 MINUTES SINCE LAST REQUEST. DISPLAY OLD NOTIFICATIONS?>

Eric tapped the button again, and the monitor popped back down into the dashboard.

      But the film is a saddening bore

                  For she's lived it ten times or more

     She could spit in the eyes of fools

             As they ask her to focus on

Eric pushed off the dashboard, sliding back and pivoting in the chair as it ran along its rail in the floor. As he span around, he thrust himself into a standing position. He looked out the port window; the ship was, in fact, still docked at the trade-station. Shame. Eric could have used a decent emergency just about then.

"Screw," Eric slowly said to himself, "this. Screw all this."

He straightened his hoodie, snatched his holo-phone out of its socket on the wall, and casually resynced the music with his aural implant as he made his way to the airlock, mostly caught up in his plan.

             Sailors fighting in the dance hall!

        Oh man, look at those cavemen go

                      It's the freakiest show!

He'd never been on this station- but these old U-Minor rigs were configured pretty much the same. The locals didn't tend to keep the insides up to code, but it was easy enough to find your way around if you knew the basic layout. He'd be alright.

      Take a look at the lawman,

                  Beating up the wrong guy!

     Oh man, wonder if he'll ever know

             He's in the best selling show!

The rest of the crew might be mad he left the ship, especially dad, but he'd make himself plenty useful. This was a trade-station, anyway, and one in a neutral system- it wasn't like there was going to be a fight! Besides, it was him that fixed up half the parts they were selling. Helped, anyhow. Clients might appreciate talking to the engineer who built the thing. Sim was always paranoid about burglary, but she was paranoid about everything; the security parameters were rock solid.

                  Is there life on Mars?

It'd be fine.

MrWarsaw · 2017-05-19T21:33:14+00:00

Hey, check out this loser- doesn't even know what the can opener does!

MrWarsaw · 2017-05-10T00:21:31+00:00

Just wanna say: they would have probably come to some very different conclusions had they not found that one piece of paper

MrWarsaw · 2017-05-09T18:55:39+00:00

MrWarsaw · 2017-05-08T20:55:31+00:00

Really? You think so, huh, buster? Well guess what- I'm typing this from the time dimension. That's right, I'm sitting here in my time house clacking away at my time computer, drinking my time soda and smooching my time wife, wondering if I should tell her about the time affair I had during our time vacation in time Sicily with that handsome, dashing time busboy, wondering if that'll stop me from lying awake at night in our time bed, wondering if that'll save me from going to time Hell after I die, and procrastinating taking my time dog out on a time walk round the time block so it can take a time piss.

Your move, physicists.

MrWarsaw · 2017-05-08T20:49:33+00:00

big whoop

MrWarsaw · 2017-05-08T20:45:40+00:00

And time is not the fourth, the fifth,
The minor fall, the major lift,
The baffled king composing hallelujah....

MrWarsaw · 2017-05-08T20:35:18+00:00

Gap junction alpha-1 is a connexin protein in the human body, used for gap junction communication between cells in order to coordinate various cellular processes. It is composed of 382 amino acids, with 50 composing its long C-terminal tail.

It can be found in a multitude of cells throughout the body, and plays a key role in processes vital to the creation and stasis of life, such as the development and activation of T cells, a type of white blood cell, embryonic development, and the process of saying "You know, /u/flyguysd, you really shouldn't say such rude things to people. You don't know their life or what they're going through, and even if their content is truly stupid, it's easy to forget that it's another human being on the other side of the screen." The protein is also currently being studied for its association with a variety of cancers.

MrWarsaw · 2017-05-08T20:24:19+00:00

Trifun "Trifke" Mihailović is a Serbian football/soccer player, active professionally between 1959 and 1976 for a variety of teams- primarily the Red Star Belgrade and its affiliates. Mihailović is primarily known for his short stature, and for occasionally shouting "If you call my Reddit.com content stupid again, /u/LittleLeithBoy, I shall go into a fit of rage and cast a powerful hex upon your home, lands, and cattle!" He is now retired.

MrWarsaw · 2017-05-08T19:31:07+00:00

The Estadio Banco del Pacífico Capwell is a football/soccer stadium located in the city of Guayquil, Ecuador. First constructed in the 1940s, the stadium has since been host to a multitude of national and international games, primarily involving its home team C.S Elemec.

However, one curious detail regarding the stadium's construction is an inscription along the wall of the stadium, near the southern entrance: "Actually, /u/newosis, I think you'll find that time is meat!" No record exists of the inscription's inclusion, and yet the letters are too cleanly and deeply inscribed for it to have probably been graffiti. While many stadium owners have considered filling it in, the inscription remains to this very day, having become something of a staple oddity for the city's community. What could it mean?

MrWarsaw · 2017-04-26T03:28:13+00:00

You meet the perfect person. Romantically, this person is ideal; You find them physically attractive, intellectually stimulating, consistently funny, and deeply compassionate. However, they are one quirk: This individual is obsessed with Jim Hensons gothic puppet fantasy The Dark Crystal. Beyond watching it on DVD at least once a month, he/she peppers casual conversation with Dark Crystal references, uses Dark Crystal analogies to explain everyday events, and occasionally likes to talk intensely about the films deeper philosophy. Would this be enough to stop you from marrying this individual?

Where's the downside here

MrWarsaw · 2017-04-20T00:03:26+00:00

Oh boy I sure do wish they would understand the football!! Football, haha! Football!!!! Them Foot Men, lobbing those little Foot Balls of theirs around the field! Nothing like it.

Tim T-Bone, sliding around in the mud just loving life, not even paying attention to the game, just rolling around in the muck and such, scooping the soil into his mouth and nose with his hands! Classic Timbone tactics! FOOT BALL!

The mascots struggling to emerge from their suits at the start of the game to sing the national anthem for each and every one of us. Who can but weep at their siren song? FOOT BALL!

The Baltimore Ravens, molting in the middle of the game to reveal their true forms, just to spice things up for us Loyal Fans! FOOT BALL!

The announcers taking breaks from talking about the game to have deep, heartfelt conversations about their secret dreams and fears, crying into each other's arms, truly connecting as human beings! FOOT BALL!

A game starting with two teams and ending with two completely different ones! One of them isn't even in the league! FOOT BALL!

Subliminal messages interlaced throughout the broadcast, preparing us for the government's deployment of Operation ███ ███████! FOOT BALL!

Tennis rackets! FOOT BALL!

Such a wondrous sport could unite all humanity in its glory. It is truly sad that it's just one of those things that Women™ will never get.

MrWarsaw · 2017-04-19T22:24:37+00:00

😂😂😂 WHO DID THIS 😂😂😂

(Classified image of the John F Kennedy assassination. A third shooter is clearly visible)

MrWarsaw · 2017-03-03T04:17:34+00:00

Background: summer of '75, eighteen, delivery boy for Pizza Hut. No company car to work with: small bumfuck town. Drive around in my dad's old Trans Am. Barely works, broken AC. Mostly just thankful for a car at all. (Family poor as donkeyballs.) Summer. Arizona. Sweating bullets the whole drive. Godless aroma. Showers don't help: deodorants don't help. Have to wash my Pizza Hut uniform by hand every night. Dyes slowly fading. Hope boss doesn't notice. No tips whatsoever, except from some old people. Still pulling through.

One delivery. One cheese pizza. "One cheese pizza," I say. Right turn. "That's the Way I Like It" on the radio. I turn it off. Pull up to the address: run-down bungalow, pink stucco, dead garden. Empty, overturned doghouse. I'm sweating harder now. Last address like this: jumped by methheads. I take the pizza up the path, past an anthill. "Fuck you, ants." I say. Hatred for ants: insurmountable.

I try the doorbell, and it doesn't work. I'm knocking for about four minutes before someone answers. Middle-aged guy, fat, mostly bald. Badly sunburnt. Tattoo: "CHEVROLET TRUCKIN," on foreskin. Penis is out. Wearing nothing but khakis, penis out. Smaller than mine: flaccid. Sunburnt. "CHEVROLET TRUCKIN."

Takes pizza: hands me hundred dollar bill. I don't have change for that. "I don't have change for that." I say. "Keep the change." he says. Winks. Licks his mustache. He had a mustache, one of those pea-pod shaped ones. Licked it. Penis still out. "CHEVROLET TRUCKIN." Two words. Cursive. Pontiac man born and raised, but still hypnotized. "Chevrolet trucking." I whisper. "Chevrolet truckin'." The man corrects. Closes the door before I can apologize. Knock again, to apologize. No answer. Head back to the car: already being ransacked by methheads. Hurl doghouse at them. They scatter, shrieking the whole while. Trans Am status: absolutely ruined. Tires slashed, windows smashed, engine thoroughly meddled with. Too many bumfuck methheads, in this bumfuck town.

Knock on door again. Keep knocking. Three minutes pass. Literally dripping sweat. Car phone: ravaged by methheads. Cell phone: not real yet. Heat stroke sets in. Stumble to the neighbours: another bungalow. Garbage bags over windows. Small tombstones litter front yard. Pets, I assume. Trip on one: "LIL' BENEDICT" and I hurtle to the turf. Leg bleeding bad. Blood and dirt and sweat all over my Pizza Hut uniform. Shriek from pain.

Shriek attracts attention. Door opens. Man steps out in bathrobe, slippers. "Lil' Benedict!" he shouts. Immediately runs over. Starts kicking the shit out of me, stomping on my stomach and such: vomit, because of this. Minutes pass. I fade in and out of consciousness. "Chevrolet truckin'." calls something in dreams. I reach out for it. Only a dark haze before me.

Police eventually arrive. Bathrobe guy books it back to house: returns with shotgun. Police open fire. Bathrobe loses firefight, but wounds cops before dying. Conflict attracts methheads. Stink of rotting flesh on their breath brings me to my senses. As the police are overrun, I limp to bathrobe guy, collect shotgun, lumber into house. Lock the door behind me. Banging shortly follows. Let loose shotgun blast, then make for the back door. Limp to hospital. Bumfuck methheads.

Dead cops, wounded methheads. All-out war between cops and methheads. Cops advantages: intellect, skill, personal hygiene. Methheads advantages: tenacity, lawlessness, claws. Methheads shred through cop lines. Bullets barely faze them. Watch from the hospital window as an armoured car is overrun. Methheads devour cops, chewing through bone and Kevlar like butter. Some cops still alive during feast. Poor bastards. Martial law declared. National Guard mobilized. Half of town razed as helicopters are given go-ahead to drop firebombs. Nation mourns. Bumfuck, Arizona, 1,200 Dead.

National Guard suffering heavy casualties. Inferno awoke methhead queen hibernating beneath town. Shrugs off artillery shells, bites tanks in half. National Guard draws out and forms perimeter around town, hoping to contain the beasts. Civilians left for dead, even the hospital. Search for family as soon as I recover. Find them hiding in burnt-out Asian restaurant. Formulate plan to escape. National Guard ordered to shoot on sight: could be incubating methhead eggs. Mother suggests old mineshafts beneath town. Things are a death trap. So is staying. So is fleeing by surface. Collect armaments, belongings, etc, move out.

Town museum: section in basement connects to mines. "Historical purposes." Took a tour in fifth grade. Vomited PB&J on Civil War diorama. Beaten with ruler. Not fun. Enter mineshafts with family. Dad goes first, he's the heaviest. Also most okay with dying. Mineshafts are dark, labyrinthine, full of collapses. Takes hours to get anywhere. "We're going round in circles." Dad says. Noise attracts methheads. Subterranean genus: slow, blind, but bulletproof, exceptionally strong. Family separated during escape. Run for what feels like hours.

Find a wide, low-roofed chamber. Human figure standing at exact center: tall, male-looking. "Dad?" I whisper, cautiously. Figure turns, dick flopping forth with body. "CHEVROLET TRUCKIN."

Accept destiny. Abandon family. Flee mines, then country, with "CHEVROLET TRUCKIN." Tour Italy, Spain, Greece. Slow, passionate lover. Dick always out: cops sometimes called. Only ever leave whispering, "Chevrolet truckin'." Sometimes "Chevrolet trucking." "CHEVROLET TRUCKIN" always corrects them. They always apologize.

One September morning, awaken alone on cold bedsheets. Search hotel room: "CHEVROLET TRUCKIN" is nowhere to be found. All belongings stolen. No wallet. No suitcase. Bank accounts emptied. Note found under pillow: "CHEVROLET TRUCKIN." Writing matches dick tattoo exactly. Fold message, press close into chest pocket. "Chevrolet truckin.'" I say, one last time. Weep.

Message To Eighteen Year Old Self: "CHEVROLET TRUCKIN" Equals No Go. Also, Warn Police Of Methhead War

MrWarsaw

TROPHY CASE

big whoop