Friday, 11 May 2007

COUNTERSTRIKE! Copyright (c) 1980, 1982, 1983, 2006 Sekocom, Inc. All rights reserved. COUNTERSTRIKE! is a registered trademark of Sekocom, Inc. Revision 23 / Serial number 8940726 West of Apartment Complex You are standing in an open field west of a white apartment complex, with a boarded front door. There is a small mailbox here. > e You will never reach it. > e You are threatened with ANXIETY. > e You enter a ROOM OF PERIL and feel THE FEAR. > don't feel Not an option. > montage Things happen quickly to a peppy tune. > dance You don't know how. > shake moneymaker You grab your wife and shake her. She stares at you with hate in her eyes. > i said shake moneymaker not breadwinner You grab your wife and shake her. She stares at you with more hate in her eyes. > i hate u im on strike So am I. > fine Fine. > > > > are u still there No. > make me happy No. > finish my paper You complete an essay entitled "All The Egregious Faults of My Advisor with No Exaggeration." > stop writing Too late. > e HERE THERE BE DRAGONS! > whatever You get eaten by a > throw quarters At? > grue Do you see a grue? > u were gonna say What? > i hate u You are in the kitchen of the white townhouse. You are still not dancing. You ass is complete immobile. > SHAKE IT You shake your thing and > hold on I eatin Are you teasing me? > homo say what Are you teasing me? > i a trickster not teaser The light in the kitchen clicks on. It flashes annoyingly. > turn it off You turn it off. POETRY ensues. > turn it off You turn off the POEM. They pound on the doors and climb through the windows. > kill them They want to give you money. > accept It comes with conditions. > accept You could go to jail. > accept You accept the money. The kitchen is cold and bloody. > consult oracle Your pockets are empty. The kitchen is bloody cold. > bloody cold or cold and bloody POETRY > kill kill kill You lunge at POETRY but it presses the button. > kill button You advert nuclear disaster. You are in the kitchen with your shaken moneymaker. A SORROWFUL TROLL attacks you. > laugh at it The SORROWFUL TROLL cries. > laugh more The SORROWFUL TROLL has too many hurt feelings and expires. > read favorite unknown book You cast the SPELL OF FEELING GREAT AND WONDERFUL > what You see a dildo on the table. > no dont Yes, do. > drink more I serve at your pleasure. You drink mightily of the mead on the table. > drink jazz What? > angie DICKINSON Still confused. You are in the kitchen, remember? There is a table > i sane robot On the table? > i sane...
IRTNOG, by E.B. White (1938) Apropos of nothing but The Modern Condition (Long-Obtaining), an extremely short work of dystopian fiction: Along about 1920 it became apparent that more things were being written than people had time to read. That is to say, even if a man spent his entire time reading stories, articles, and news, as they appeared in books, magazines, and pamphlets, he fell behind. This was no fault of the reading public; on the contrary, readers made a real effort to keep pace with writers, and utilized every spare moment during their walking hours. They read while shaving in the morning and while waiting for trains and while riding on trains. They came to be a kind of tacit agreement among numbers of the reading public that when one person laid down the baton, someone else must pick it up; and so when a customer entered a barbershop, the barber would lay aside the Boston Evening Globe and the customer would pick up Judge; or when a customer appeared in a shoe-shining parlor, the bootblack would put away the racing form and the customer would open his briefcase and pull out The Sheik. So there was always somebody reading something. Motormen of trolley cars read while they waited on the switch. Errand boys read while walking from the corner of Thirty-ninth and Madison to the corner of Twenty-fifth and Broadway. Subway riders read constantly, even when they were in a crushed, upright position in which nobody could read his own paper but everyone could look over the next man s shoulder. People passing newsstands would pause for a second to read headlines. Men in the back seats of limousines, northbound on Lafayette Street in the evening, switched on tiny dome lights and read the Wall Street Journal. Women in semi-detached houses joined circulating libraries and read Vachel Lindsay while the baby was taking his nap. There was a tremendous volume of staff that had to be read. Writing began to give off all sorts of by-products. Readers not only had to read the original works of a writer, but they also had to scan what the critics said, and they had to read the advertisements reprinting the favorable criticisms, and they had to read the book chat giving some rather odd piece of information about the writer such as that he could write only when he had a gingersnap in his mouth. It all took time. Writers gained steadily, and readers lost. Then along came the Reader's Digest. That was a wonderful idea. It digested everything that was being written in leading magazine, and put new hope in the hearts of readers. Here, everybody thought, was the answer to the problem. Readers, badly discouraged by the rate they had been losing ground, took courage and set out once more to keep abreast of everything that was being written in the world. For a while they seemed to hold their own. But soon other digests and short cuts appeared, like Time, and The Best...

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