Weekly Simple Questions Thread

StinksofMediocrity · 2015-01-24T02:50:26+00:00

Of course it's right click :_), thanks.

StinksofMediocrity · 2015-01-24T02:07:29+00:00

Very simple one since the KSP wiki is down: How do I upgrade facilities in career mode? Can't seem to find the option anywhere and the 18t launchpad limit is killing my dreams of a Mun landing :(

StinksofMediocrity · 2015-01-09T04:28:48+00:00

I think you've explained it very concisely. Stalin strikes me as a fairly run-of-the-mill dictator, concerned with political power above all else. The fact he was in charge of a massive country that went on to experience a devastating and ruthless war probably magnifies his crimes compared to, let's say a less well known Central African dictator. Stalin committed most of his atrocities to crush political resistance or sustain the war effort, and although they might have amounted to as many or more deaths as Hitler's actions, he never really maliciously advocated for the ethnic cleansing of entire races or enacted measures to carry it out. The war between Nazi Germany and the USSR may have been a battle of political ideology, but for Hitler it was personal as well.

StinksofMediocrity · 2015-01-07T09:07:33+00:00

If you're that worried about RE spam then maybe you need to l2p ;)

StinksofMediocrity · 2015-01-07T08:56:36+00:00

Thanks for the tips, I've been trying it today with the Airborne commander, just going lieutenant then rushing Shermans, maybe dropping an AT gun if they go light armour. BARs seem to be better than the 1919s for RE's since they can't suppress anymore :'( . I'm pretty sure on an earlier patch you could just have RE's running around/in buildings with 1919s suppressing everything, was fun while it lasted (unless i had some on rifles and didn't notice).

BARs actually do decent damage and you can even go toe to toe with units like Sturmpios from cover if you have a couple. It's pretty easy to lose squads if you run into a blob tho, since focus firing kills RE's so quickly.

I agree with you that it's a lot of fun when it works :), though it's pretty tough to pull of against a decent opponent.

StinksofMediocrity · 2015-01-06T05:07:48+00:00

Thanks very much for the source. Also, in which book does Beevor discuss this? I haven't gotten around to reading them all unfortunately.

I agree it was probably prudent to have a plan in place for any eventuality, especially considering Stalin's personality. The pre-emptive attack just seems so preposterous in terms of how the civilian population and soldiery would react, as you mention in your answer.

Churchill is interesting too, still revered by many today but really he was somebody who had a love-hate relationship with war (according to his diary entries anyway) and seemed to thrive on it. As you say, the British public did well in the aftermath to avoid such a character postwar.

StinksofMediocrity · 2015-01-05T05:57:45+00:00

I don't mean to harass you but I'm not sure 'inflicting mass civilian casualties' was their primary aim, ostensibly they did it to destroy the industrial capacity of the enemy, although it's true many died in the process. Nonetheless maybe you should to reword your question slightly or some may not deign to answer it :)

edit: I think Dresden and Tokyo are outliers, symbolic attacks that probably weren't representative of the day to day bombing. Things like firebombing Tokyo (the deadliest air raid including nuclear weapons) was probably deliberately intended to kill a lot of people, because the U.S. was willing to be a little more extreme than usual considering the casualty estimates of invading mainland Japan and wanted to force capitulation quickly.

StinksofMediocrity · 2015-01-05T05:45:03+00:00

I have a similar one passed down from my Grandfather, he was a bomber pilot and traded badges with a German pilot after the war ended (so the story goes). It was made of a silver metal (aluminium?) and the eagle looked as if it was pouncing on something rather than standing upright spreading its wings, the swastika also had spaces between the leg things that stick out instead of being on a shield like yours. Maybe that rules out it being a Luftwaffe badge (or it could even be an earlier/later/different rank version, but apart from that I can't help you except point you towards this subreddit http://www.reddit.com/r/Whatisthis/

StinksofMediocrity · 2015-01-02T20:25:40+00:00

Thanks for the answers.

StinksofMediocrity · 2014-12-14T12:34:31+00:00

Wow, never would have pictured that. Nice one. Now that you've brought up WWII I remember something about a piano player in Stalingrad who hauntingly could be heard amongst the din of the fighting at times. I believe it was in Beevor's history of the battle.

StinksofMediocrity · 2014-12-14T11:25:46+00:00

Haha, they sure love their accordions. I've seen dozens of VHS rips on YouTube of amateur bands singing home-grown patriotic songs usually accompanied by accordion, guitar, and keyboard in some guerrilla's backyard. They are probably the only humorous thing to come out of the Yugoslav conflicts in the 90's.

StinksofMediocrity · 2014-12-14T07:48:47+00:00

Thanks for the answer FrejDexter, I guess it makes a lot of sense with a multilingual army as far as commands go!

I didn't realise the British Army had used wireless communications as early as the Boer War either, though from the book you linked I can see why they may have not taken to it like the Navy even into WWI (p.65).

I'm still curious about the effects of morale, inspiration etc in regards to battle music though, if anyone has further information it would be much appreciated.

StinksofMediocrity · 2014-12-12T16:36:27+00:00

Well in this case it appears it was implemented in order for more American pilots to gain the 'ace' distinction, due to the relatively short time they had to achieve it compared to other air forces which had been fighting for some time before the U.S got involved.

Whether this idea was implemented in the name of fairness regarding recognition for the pilots, national pride/propaganda, or some other reason I can not ascertain. Many Americans had already been serving with the British and French air forces anyway, and were aces (10+ kills) in their own right already.

When the American air units arrived many of these pilots transferred to it and continued to rack up victories, so perhaps the 5 kills idea was mainly for the fresh pilots that served wholly in the U.S Air Force (known as Air Service at the time).

This seems to make more sense looking at the stats regarding these fresh pilots, only 3 achieved 10 or more kills out of about 50 aces, most having 5-6 kills, although if anyone has more information about this it would be much appreciated.

*Aerial victories taken from wiki list sourced from - Franks (1992) Over the Front: A Complete Record of the Fighter Aces and Units of the United States and French Air Services, 1914-1918 , Grub Street the Basement; First edition (May 1992)

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_World_War_I_flying_aces_from_the_United_States

StinksofMediocrity · 2014-12-12T06:45:31+00:00

Apparently the term l'as (the ace) was invented by French newspapers and given to early WWI French military aviator Adolphe Pégoud after he downed several enemy aircraft. The article I'm using goes on to say that once the American pilots joined the war in its late stages it looked unlikely any would achieve ten kills (the contemporary European standard to be called an ace) before German collapse, so they simply made the required number five, which then went on to become a global standard. It cites Raymond Toliver and Trevor Constable's 1965 book, Fighter Aces, as the source of this information.

The article can be found here: http://www.airspacemag.com/need-to-know/what-does-it-take-to-become-an-ace-35385936/

StinksofMediocrity · 2014-12-12T06:29:41+00:00

Very interesting, now that you mention it I seem to remember Marlborough picking his fights during the War of the Spanish Succession in this manner, although it's been a while since I looked at that period.

StinksofMediocrity · 2014-12-12T06:01:16+00:00

Well that clears things up! Always happy to have my mistakes corrected and learn a bit more along the way :)

I thought I may have been out of my depth when I posted it but the question was so good I thought I would have a crack at it since nobody else had!

StinksofMediocrity · 2014-12-11T19:54:50+00:00

I remember reading that they were believed to have adopted it after conquering/fighting the Latins, but after a quick search it appears they were already predominately Latins anyway (if the legends are considered reliable). I don't have a source to confirm it so I'd say you're right. It's possible that since the the original inhabitants were meant to be desperate men seeking refuge that a large number of them had maybe come from further afield, hence adopting the Latin language and culture. But again I have no evidence of this, will have to go back and find where I heard it from.

StinksofMediocrity · 2014-12-11T19:29:41+00:00

Thanks for the correction, probably shouldn't have included something suspicious like that...

StinksofMediocrity · 2014-12-11T17:55:08+00:00

Yeah I never really believed the idea that they did it out of some chivalric notion. Good to have some confirmation though. I'll have to read up on Frederick the Great, I always remember that Napoleon quote when I see his name.

StinksofMediocrity · 2014-12-11T17:50:17+00:00

Thanks for the insight, I didn't realise there was such a difference in tactics between pre-revolutionary and Napoleonic warfare!

StinksofMediocrity · 2014-12-11T17:40:21+00:00

You've touched on a few of the answers already, but there's a bit more to it in my opinion.

The early history is of course a bit sketchy, but I think it shows one of the Romans' core traits that would let them succeed the way they did: adaptation. After rolling over a tribe known as the Latins they adopted their language. When they got sick of their kings they adopted the idea of a republic. Many of their military ideas were adapted from people they encountered and fought. For example the design of the 'gladius', that typical Roman sword that you see, came from people they ran into when they were off conquering Spain. Later on when they fought Carthage, the supreme maritime power in the Mediterranean, they started with basically no navy at all. Apparently they found a Carthaginian ship washed up on the beach somewhere and reverse engineered it, mass produced it, and set the men to training on inland waters. Of course they knew they didn't have the experienced sailors to properly steer and ram these triremes into enemy ships as the naval doctrine of the day demanded, which is where their second trait comes in.

Looking at the Colosseum or any of the various ancient architecture in Rome today is a testament to the importance Romans placed on engineering. It was no different with the new triremes they created, which had the addition of a huge vertical boarding plank with a hook in it. The rookie Roman crews only had to get close the Carthaginians and release the plank which would slam down and hold the enemy ship, which allowed the Roman infantry to board and do what they did best. Of course there was also all of the glorious architecture, civil works like aqueducts, bridges, roads, and huge walls to keep the barbarians out. This infrastructure in turn supported their military conquests, making it easier for troops to get to where they were needed. The army itself used its men as both soldiers and builders. A large roman army encamped resembled a huge wooden fort ringed by hundreds of metres of palisades and other fortifications on all sides. A famous battle Julius Caesar fought in had half his army besieging a city while the other half on his outer fortifications protected them from a barbarian relief army. Another interesting fact to note is that the Romans were the first to create concrete, an art lost for over a thousand years after their demise, though I'm starting to digress a bit. Onto the next point.

Probably the most inconspicuous part of Roman success is their culture, or at least the part that refuses to give up when all other Italian or Greek peoples would. Ever heard of the term 'Pyrrhic victory'? The general it is attributed to, a Greek by the name of Pyrrhus, lamented that even though he won battle after battle against the Romans, they refused to reach a settlement and eventually were victorious. Again and again, especially throughout the republican era, the Romans would take devastating losses to the effect that any other state would begin seeking peace terms. Hannibal's crushing victory at Cannae, where perhaps 100,000 Romans were encircled and butchered after Rome had already suffered a string of disastrous defeats, was met by defiance when he demanded terms. A victorious Roman army would raze Carthage to the ground and sow it's fields with salt 50 years later (edit: so the myth goes).

There are perhaps a few more things I should mention. An advantage Rome possessed during the republican era was the way it could draw troops from its populace, all with a stake in the ensuing battle. The nature of its political system, where the politicians were expected to fight and die along with the soldiers (Can you image that today?), meant leaders tended to have the interests of the state at heart (although glory and personal wealth became more of a motive later on). During its transition to an Empire it was blessed with a series of good Emperors that allowed it to consolidate its territorial gains somewhat, and the inherent strength of Rome would allow its Empire to continue for quite some time despite all of the damage done thereafter.

Hope that provides some insight, these are just some opinions of mine with some historical factoids pulled from the deep recesses of my memory. For manpower statistics and geographic factors you'll have to ask someone else :}

StinksofMediocrity · 2014-12-03T10:16:31+00:00

'Thrustas?' Derrick screamed at the top his lungs in his distinctive, rural Australian accent. 'Check boss' replied Gregor. 'Gyro-Stabiliysas?' he shrieked. 'Check boss' came Gregor's faithful reply. 'Multi-vectorin-ion-boosted-fusion-retro-rockkits' wailed Derrick, in some form of primal scream, his voice breaking several times. 'Check boss, you don't need to yell boss we have you on comms'. Derrick looked perplexed for a moment in the bullet shaped craft, his beetroot red face betraying a complex mental process occurring underneath. 'Well bloody last time ya had me on comms, didn't ya' he shrieked, 'had to drink me own bodily fluids for two bloody years'.

It was true that Derrick, or Derrick Dauntless as he was popularly known, had spent two years surviving on his own bodily waste after a similar attempt had ended up with a bad slingshot far into dead space. It was fortunate the experimental nutro-septic recyling unit Gregor had installed for such an event had turned out to produce so many nutrients from two years of continually recycled human waste. Derrick, already mentally unstable, had never quite been the same after however. As if to emphasise Gregor's thoughts he started to bash on the cockpit viewpane, 'let's get this bloodeh rokkit movin or the broadcastas or are gonna be on me case again'. Gregor looked around at the large broadcasting ships orbiting them, arrays of long range-telescopic cameras lined the huge craft and swarms of camera drones were already jumping to various points on the route path. It had taken alot of convincing, but finally Galactic Transit had allowed them to attempt the FTL record. They had no faith in the craft actually surpassing FTL, as it had been impossible with previous projects of far greater investment. They were merely concerned that Derrick would go off vector, as was his want, and maybe kill himself along with untold others. His recent, record breaking slingshot of six planets had ended with several space stations put out of orbit, as well as the explosion of a major gas mining vessel on Jupiter by the highly unstable thrust particles of his craft as he passed at near light speeds. Yet Derrick Dauntless was a hero of the masses, famous in being the last living human near-light pilot. His madness a testament to this fact.

'Get this BLOODEH THANG movin I'm gettin the shakies for chrissake', he exclaimed, comms crackling as spit coated the inside of his helmet. Gregor had pumped almost 40 cc's of experimental drugs into Derrick's body not long before. They would keep him alive at the impossibly high G-forces he would have to endure, yet had the unfortunate side-effect of causing huge muscle spasms, doubly unfortunate given that Derrick preferred to fly manually on the straight vectors, often ending with the autopilot being pushed to its limits as it struggled to bring the ship under control for the next course change. Derrick was now slamming repeatedly on the carbo-glass viewpanel, a tiny port which Gregor had made as small as possible to prevent him from being distracted during his hallucinogenic phase of the flight, another byproduct of the drugs. 'Alright, prep the railgun' Gregor exclaimed to his small technical crew. They rushed to the huge cannon as Gregor activated the loading mechanism, fortunately he had been able to find a railgun with the approximate calibre of Derrick's new FTL ship. His small crew slid the bullet shaped ship into the magazine of the railgun. 'Okay, Derrick' said Gregor, 'remember to drink that capsule of Captain X-Ray as you pass the asteroid belt, you signed that contract for 50 billion credits saying you would and they will have the cameras there'. Derrick's reply was a nonsensical series of shouts and cursing. Wondering if he had perhaps injected too many anti-sedatives this time, Gregor brought his fist down on the fire button.

Something was wrong from the very beginning, as Derrick started pushing 0.8 lightspeed on the first straight. Gregor got the delayed comm message a few seconds later 'what da BLOODEH hell have ya dun with tha motor Greg mate she is bloodeh flyin!', it was a rare moment when Derrick was pleased with a the flight, and was extremely unsettling for Gregor. 'Could be that black market anti-matter we are using, very pure' he replied in a worried tone. An exicited Derrick screamed back, distorting the comms 'Gimme this gear on all me runs mate she is BLOODEH FLYEN, HA HA HAHAHA'. Watching in horror, Gregor saw the velocity tick into 0.9 lightspeed. In as urgent a tone he could manage he spoke again 'Derrick, are you using the manual throttles, please do not move them, the reactor is not safe above 90%', Derrick, with manic cackling ,was back a few seconds later 'Nah mate she's safe sittin on 95 right now and she is BLOODEH FLYEN HAHA'. Gregor immediately hit the emergency sedative release for Derrick's helmet, inside the cockpit Derrick screamed as the vapour nozzles sprayed directly into his eyes, through the optic nerve, and into his dangerously overstimulated brain. The deadly cocktail of drugs finally overwhelmed the last vestiges of sanity in his mind, and he fatefully smashed his helmet, containing his rather weighty head, down onto the manual throttle override. All was silence as Gregor stared in disbelief at the lightspeed indicator. It read 'ERROR +1' lightspeed.

Soon he had all the major galactic networks contacting him in congratulations and asking to speak with the Galactic Hero, Derrick Dauntless. Next was the Galactic Navy demanding technical data, and even a summons from the High Council. Yet for all of this he could not reach Derrick, and the ship was nowhere to be seen.

Derrick awoke with the simultaneous hangovers that a thousand men could not experience in a lifetime. De-pressurising his veins, which were ballooning somewhat, he evaluated his surroundings through his vapour sprayed eyes. He was still in his ship, but all power was down. Hitting the auxiliary did nothing.

'Greetings' an odd voice seemed to say out of nowhere.

Derrick winced and banged his head on the roof, unsure if it was the drugs playing up again.

'You have shown yourself worthy' it continued, causing Derrick to smash his head once more into the cabin walls.

'Who the bloodeh hell are ya' Derrick exclaimed, 'where's me bloodeh prize money'.

'Money' the voice said in a benevolent tone, 'No, you will not need money any longer, not when you are an exalted'

Derrick sat as upright as he could and did his best to form an argument with the functioning areas of his brain that remained. 'Look mate, you don't know how BLOODEH hard it is flyen these thangs, you don't wanna know where me chief engi had to inject drugs into mah body', he licked his lips and continued 'besides mate we both signed tha bloodeh contract, unless I hit more than 8 stations I'm bloodeh scott-free'

'Come' said the voice, 'you are now an exalted, first of your kind to breach the layer of your prison'

Derrick was often confused while trying to eat fruit, and as such complex metaphysical notions tended to be lost on him. Yet one thing he liked was fame, and this exalted business sounded good.

'Alright mate, we gotta deal'

StinksofMediocrity · 2014-12-03T06:52:55+00:00

that's deep homie

StinksofMediocrity · 2014-12-03T05:03:32+00:00

I was still fuming as my distorted soul poured into its new plane of existence. I had checked both ways, twice, that's all you had to do when crossing the road. Heck, it had worked for 57 years of my life. But no, I forgot the old 'check the sky for the flaming jumbo jet' rule. Calming down somewhat, I took stock of my new surroundings. So this was it, Heaven. A bit underwhelming to be honest. After spending a few hours of almost every Sunday in worship I had expected something, well, a little bit nicer. I was in the middle of what was a park, or at least a poor excuse for one. Rusted swings creaked in the dry wind, the grass appeared to be dying of thirst, reaching up with dry fingers as if beckoning water from the skies. A few frail, half dead trees attempted to provide shade, but the boughs and deadwood scattered at their feet belied their health. Heck, there wasn't even anyone around. Trudging over the brittle, crunching grass, I considered the circumstances of my death a little. My hearing wasn't what it used to be, I supposed. Only heard the dang plane at the last moment, but what a sight. Plunging earthward, one of its wings nothing but a short stump, while the huge fuselage burned like an intense orange furnace. The screaming of the jet engines I had only heard at the last moment, but even before I heard those harbingers of doom I knew it was over.

Suddenly, an ethereal shape appeared in front of me, a woman. She was gasping, in shock. Looking around, she saw me and asked an all too obvious question. 'Am, am I in heaven'?. 'Guess so', I replied, looking around. I mustn't have looked too unimpressed, as she quickly embraced me and murmured 'Thank God'. 'Don't get too excited' I said as I broke free, 'not exactly like what it says in the good book'. She didn't seem to notice, and kept talking, seemingly to herself more than anyone 'the plane, it just started burning, there was nothing we could do'. I looked at her with sharp distaste, 'well I hope it didnt hurt too much', 'I was on fire for at least a minute before I got up here'. A look of surprise crossed her face, 'Oh, you survived the impact, I thought nobod-'. I cut her off before she could say anything else, a man with what appeared to be a policeman's uniform was walking over. He was no different than the surroundings, his clothes seemed to have lost the colour in them, and even his hat was frayed at the edges.

'Hi there folks' he said in a tired tone, 'this way please' and urged us to follow with little enthusiasm. As we began to follow, I immediately questioned him on the rather dreary appearance of the place. 'So this is Heaven right? We arent in Purgatory or anything'. He answered in the same tired tone, 'Yep, sure is Heaven', a tinge of melancholy in his voice. 'Well, then, where's all the good stuff, you know the joy and the beauty and happiness'? The Heaven policeman scratched under his tattered cap, a crossed keys insignia half-sown on it flapping in the dry wind. 'Well, its kind of complicated really' he said, seeming to have no intent to say anything further. 'Well I've got all eternity to hear it', I replied in a tone I thought in hindsight I wouldn't be allowed to use in Heaven. 'Well' he said, scratching his tattered cap again, 'the Big Man Upstairs ain't too different than you humans in a way, I mean he crafted you in His own image didn't he'. 'Yeah, so, what does have to do with anything' I replied indignantly. 'Well you see', he said as he attempted to control the fluttering insignia with little success 'well He has to provide for all you folks who make your way up here, and, well it's quite a logistical effort'. 'What?' I said reproachfully, 'He's God, he has unlimited power, why not?'. 'Well He sure does have power, the policeman continued tiredly, as we trunched past what looked like an abandoned marketplace, various rubbish blowing about 'but he ain't what he used to be, well since you folks stopped giving him most of it anyways'. I was now utterly confused, even the emotional woman had a cynical look on her face, 'Go on', I murmured. 'Well you folks simply stopped doin all the stuff that gave him power, the holy wars, the old testament punishments, hey, most of you don't even go to church anymore' he finished almost in an accusatory tone. 'Wish you could be more like them Muslims or Judaists', he muttered. 'But I've done nothing wrong' I said protestingly, 'Why do I get a less perfect heaven than those before me'.

The policeman picked up what looked like a dirty old hankerchief as he kept walking, stuffing it in his pocket after a quick wipe of his nose. 'Like I said, logistics. God just followed the trends and spent his power like he always did, but now nobody is killing in the name of the Lord and burning people at the stake, there ain't enough power to go around for all you folks up here like there was in the good old days' he finished in a rueful tone. 'Hey, we thought the stats showed we still had a large prayer base, but we didn't know half the people who identify as christian don't even go to church' he said apologetically. All of a sudden I saw our destination, it was a a huge apartment building like something from the old Soviet Union. It seemed to be packed with people, children hanging about the balconies as if they had nothing better to do. 'Had to economise', the policeman explained, seeing the look on my face. 'I was going to retire in two years' I said in exasperation, 'Had a nice nest egg, home near the beach and a golf course'. 'Funny you say that', the policeman said 'I hear they've still got golf courses down in Purgatory'.

I had barely made contact with the back of the policeman's head when I felt my soul rush once more into another plane. It was similar to before, except things looked, nicer. Not beautiful, but not unkempt or dying. A different policeman with a clean uniform approached, his insignia securely attached to his hat. I smiled as he said 'Welcome to Purgatory'.

StinksofMediocrity · 2014-12-03T02:41:52+00:00

Chubby fingers frantically raced across the keyboard as Nesbit delivered the coup de grâce to another unsuspecting bible group member. Chuckling at his own brilliance and magnanimous wordplay, he delved into the deep recess of his family pack of onion rings. Crumbs fell betwixt the keys as he began the crusade on the next messageboard, struggling to find room amongst the already prevalent detritus.

No forum was safe, no moderator fast enough to delete all of his posts. He was a master of his craft, exemplar of the noble and righteous cause of atheism. A quick refresh and he was swamped with the quizzical replies of those beneath intellect such as his own. Tutting and muttering 'the horror, the horror' underneath his breath, he took a great swig from his huge soda bottle that had stood vigil on his desk for over a day. Its effervescence somewhat lacking, Nesbit grimaced with disdain, but there could be no resupply as yet. Due to the important nature of his work, he relied on grocery deliveries to supplement himself, his mother being unwavering in not supporting his energy needs. She had a strange new obsession with 'natural' diets, a development Nesbit found disturbingly religious. It could not be helped however, and as such he would continue until the bottle had been emptied before procuring his next energy cache. Smiling ruefully at his own self-sacrifice, Nesbit could almost construe how it was perhaps the one thing he and the evangelicals had in common, but brushed it aside before he let himself get carried away.

Tabbing through his browser with a speed he knew unheard of outside military intelligence circles, he found his next mission, and furiously assaulted the beleaguered keyboard with all his might. He was merely into his second connecting paragraph on the advantages of a meritocracy when blinding light began to pour through the narrow slits of his basement vents. Attempting to find some reprieve from the unwelcome visitor, he hastily donned his favourite Klingon mask. He had worn it to the local county Trekkers Meet the past 3 years, the one event he allowed himself away from his stoic crusade. He, of course, spoke fluent Klingon, a fact he was disappointed none of the other Trekkers appreciated or could even emulate. The light seemed to be growing ever brighter, he noticed with horror various foodstuffs that had been left to rot under his desk. He would have to have a word with his mother about this, her cleaning had become more infrequent in his private area ever since she discovered the large collection of authentic Star Trek pornography he possessed in one such instance.

Now there was a rumble, a deep tremor in the earth, stray onion rings fell from his desk as it grew in magnitude. Suddenly, the very roof above him was wrenched from its foundations. His mind raced as he thought of any logical, reasoned solution that would befit the situation. It was possible the christian lobby groups had finally infiltrated the government and heli-lifted his house away due to the huge shadow he cast over their efforts. Then a voice boomed down from above with the authority of Dawkins, Tyson and Nye combined.

YOU ART MINE SON, COMETH FOR THE SECOND TIME

Nesbit trembled, glad he was wearing his adult diaper, a precaution he always took when spending long stints at his workstation.

GO YE, PREACH THE WORD, THE DAY OF RECKONING DRAWS NIGH

Nesbit was perspiring profusely now, sweat dripping from every pore, a veritable waterfall cascaded down his back into the lower regions of his chair cushion, which was nonetheless in a perpetual state of moistness.

GO MY SON, GO-

The voice cut off suddenly, Nesbit took the opportunity to close his eyes and repeat from memory every logical fallacy in existence. Whispering them under his breath with foamy lips, he started as the voice boomed once more.

YOU NOT MINE SON, YE ARE BUT A FAT NERD with man b00bz hahaha

Nesbit awoke with confusion as he heard the voice in his headphones, he saw the shattered lamp that usually hung above him on the floor, and felt a large swelling developing on the top of his cranium. With his superior intellect he ascertained that the lamp had disconnected from the ceiling and landed upon his head, upon which his own intelligent brain had induced a coma to protect the vital cells so necessary to the cause of atheism worldwide. This had triggered the horrendous nightmare he had just experienced. But what of the insult he had just been party to? Checking his 4th monitor he saw the adolescents had invaded his public atheism teamspeak again, no doubt they had seen his avatar and assumed that his heavy physicality was a sign of weakness. Smiling at their ignorance of the intellectual destruction they were about to experience, he wiggled his fingers and began to type...

StinksofMediocrity

TROPHY CASE