Wolfy Nostalgia Post of the Week

According to Newton's third law of motion, and I'm paraphrasing here, for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. With that thought in mind, the universe requires a reaction to the Moon Blog "Settlers of Catan Life Analogy of the Week".

To counteract the horror that is those posts I will be scouring our old blog archives and selecting one post a week to share.

The first selection comes from the creator of Observe the Ownage. My favorite chode dragger, señor Baggins. All the way back from October of 2005.

Little Red Riding Fish

Once upon a time, there was a little boy named Kwicky who lived in a village called Louisville. Whenever he went out, the little boy wore a red fisherman's jacket, so everyone in the city called him Little Red Riding Fish. One morning, Little Red Riding Fish asked his mother if he could go to visit this girl he had met online.

"That's a good idea," his mother said. So they packed a nice basket for Little Red Riding Fish to take to this girl.

When the basket was ready, the little boy put on his red jacket and kissed his mother goodbye.
"Remember, go straight to Catie's house," his mother cautioned. "Don't dawdle along the way and please don't talk to strangers! The city is dangerous."

But when Little Red Riding Fish noticed a poker game being played along the way, he forgot his promise to his mother. He played a few hands, had a beer and a shot, and played a few more.

Little Red Riding Fish was owning the game so hardcore, that he didn't notice a dark shadow approaching out of the corner behind him...

Suddenly, the Wolf appeared beside him.
"What are you doing out here, little boy?" the wolf asked in a voice as friendly as he could muster.

"I'm on my way to see a new prospect who lives in Denver," Little Red Riding Fish replied.

Then he realized how late he was and quickly excused himself, rushing down the road to Catie's house.

The Wolf, in the meantime, took a shortcut...

A few minutes later, Red Riding Fish knocked on the door. The Wolf jumped into bed and pulled the covers over his nose. "Who is it?" he called in a cackly voice.

"It's me, Little Red Riding Fish."

"Oh how lovely! Do come in, my dear," croaked the Wolf.

Red Riding Fish thought something was not right...
"Catie, what a large amount of hair you have!"
"All the more for you to brush my dear," he replied.
"Catie, what a smelly chode you have!"
"All the more reason for you to sniff it dear," he replied.
"Catie, what a white, hairless ass you have!"
"Damn, I am so &*$%ing tired of hearing that. I was born that way! Get over it!" another voice replied.

At this moment Fish realized that this girl was not a girl, but was instead the Wolf and his cohort Bag pretending to be her.

Fish was heartbroken. It did not last long however, as his sorrows were satisfactorily drowned in tequila and a power hour.

THE END

A Lesson in Composure

Choose Wisely

William Sharpe handed the completed forms to the trooper outside the door. He fell in step behind the man. At least, he assumed it was a man. These days it was damn near impossible to tell with those full body suits and wraparound lasersights. Will was careful to remember the exact route they took through the long, painfully clean corridors – he had gotten this far through the screening process and an almost picture perfect memory was a big part of that. After passing three security checkpoints – the last staffed by an actual Gamesman – Will found himself in a sparsely furnished waiting room. He sat in the one chair against the wall. It faced a door across from the one he had entered. He wasn’t fooled by the meager seating options. The man outside had been a Gamesman, although of low rank, but it was still a big fucking deal. Some people never saw a Gamesman their entire lives, except on the vids - but everyone watched the vids.


OR


Henry moved to New York City to escape the incessant screaming as soon as he could scrap together enough money. He moved into a dingy one room flat with roaches and an overhead fluorescent that buzzed and flickered constantly. He couldn’t have been happier. Henry rarely left his flat and when he did it was only to go down to the factory where he worked packing sawdust and turning it into plywood. The job paid well enough and for some reason he always felt good among the stacks of wood that just sat there and made no sound at all – as wood should. He only occasionally heard the faintest of cries whispered when the wind blew just right. And Henry could live with that.