Shamrocktober Sky, Part 2: Ye Olde Voyage to Ye Neckbeard Gathering

(As continued from part 1, which should really be listed before this article, not after, but I'm a computer illiterate who doesn't know how to change such things, much like my underwear, socks, and my sole online password from the 1990's.)

Having thus endured the complete and total collapse of my baseball gland, and recovered thanks to a heavy dose of often-hackneyed 90's Space Station Soap Opery, I found my way to the Renaissance Festival.  

But... it was no simple journey, youngling.  For ye see, to delight in the indulgences of the old world, ye must pass many a frightful trial.  I will recount these for ye, should ye be of ye curiositye:

Ye.

CHALLANGE THA FARST - THE DRIVE OF SLOTH: 

Given the rustic quaintitude of the Renn Faire, it's only proper that it exist in the middle of fucking nowhere in mungcock particular.  The journey would be long; the terrain, treacherous in the extreme.  My steed - a Taurus branded by the Fords, birthed in the year of 1993 - awaited me eagerly as I took its worn leather wheel, swept several layers of fossilized Popeye's cartons from the dashboard (also, I got to lick the bonus grease!), and repeatedly turned the key until some whimpering resembling the sound of an engine could be heard.  

On the road again I was, mmm yes.  

I'm a defensive driver, which is why I drive in the left lane at exactly four miles below the speed limit, right side tires on top of the line, with my right blinker on so that nobody tries to come around me.  It's like my Dad always told me when I was learning to drive - "Getting passed is getting splattered." he would say.  To maintain a safe speed, I often slow myself down by driving in a squiggle.  The only drawback to this method is that all the freaks with death wishes on the road seem to take umbrage at my vehicular lifestyle choice, and say and do mean things to me, like "I hope you die, asshat." and shoot live rounds at me.  

I give thumbs up so people know I appreciate their judgements and feelings, even if they differ from my own!  

While this day was no exception, I managed to survive the drive with two of my windows intact, and only three gunshots having grazed my body.  But then, THEN, that's when the real challenge began:

With only two-way roads leading into and out of the Fest, there was a line of cars longer than I would ever wish my dick was (because having a two-mile-long dick would suuuuuuck.)  My mental fortitude began to wane.  It was then that I thought back to my recovery, back to what that noble crew on Deep Space Nine taught me.  I thought back to this one episode where Quark's Mom got naked because Quark's brother Rom asked her to.  This thought calmed me, and helped me to keep a straight head throughout the wait.  

Oh Moogie...

After what must have been the 10000th replay of an aging Ferengi woman stripping naked gently rollick through my skull, I blinked, and became aware of my arrival.  I... I could park!  

The first trial was over.  I collected 20,000 bonus points, enjoyed a brief celebratory cutscene, and proceeded to the next level on foot.  

CHELLINGE DURR SUKOND - FUCKING WALKING IN A FUCKING CAR FOREST:

Although I had parked, I was nowhere near the entrance to the fair.  Before my lay a woeful obstacle course of parked cars, and even worse, gentle uphill inclines.  Still, I perservered.  Sweating under the sweltering early fall sun, I dragged my now-aching feet across grass and gravel towards the ticket gate. It was at that point I encountered the fence:

This was no ordinary fence, it was... ok, well it was an ordinary fence.  But I HATE fences.  Keepin' me off other people's property, making me climb them and tearing massive holes in the crotches of all my favorite sweat pants, failing to contain all those dinosaurs in Jurassic Park... what's not to fucking hate about fences?  Nothing, that's what's not not to fucking hate about fences.  

So there I was, with a long fence between me and my beloved Renne Fairee.  Like a Choose Your Own Adventure book, I had a Choose My Own Adventure before me.  I could:

Turn to Page 15 if you want to attempt to climb over the fence,

Turn to Page 45 if you want to go around the fence, 

Peeking ahead to page 45, I read that going around the fence would somehow manage to get me killed by a large man cosplaying as a Gelfling from the Dark Crystal.  With this in mind, I instead wisely opted to mount a expedition up the fence.  

After much grunting and struggling, and only a little tearing of the crotch of my sweat pants, I managed to get on top of the fence.  With a great deal more grunting, struggling, and some significant tearing of my sweat pants clean across the crotch from buckle to buttock (along with a little bit of peeing myself), I slowly managed my way down the other side.  

With Mount Fence behind me, I stumbled onward to the ticket gate, where, in a seeming good turn of fortune, I purchased yon tickete of admisseones for ye humblye fee.  

Tryumphaynt, I walked througheth the gates and ynto the Faire.  One last tryal awaited me, and t'would be the hardest and most rewarding task of yem all.  

CHULLUNGLE PA DIRD - THE TRIAL OF WAITING IN A LINE FOR BOOZE:

T'was a greate pleasure to be at the Faire, to behold the nerds, the geeks, the rednecks, the neckbeards, and rarest of all, the Atlantic Speckled Ginger Redneckbeard, which are always hard to photograph from any but the most extreme distances.  

However, as delightful as it was to stare at the pageantry and the plentiful bosoms made possible by the extreme smooshage of female abdomens, I had a thirst that had to be quenched.  Not just a thirst, but a thyrst, the kind that takes ahold of you at the Renn Faire and never lets go.  

I needed alcohyle.  There was no purpose going without it.  

To my yon olde surpryse, Y was not the only one who had sych an ydea.  Vast lynes stretched before me.  I exaymined (what's that?  Stop it with the 'y's?  Awww...) each with a keen eye.   Some moved faster than others, others were too full of wooden-sword-wielding teenagers for me to feel safe.  After traversing the full breadth of the Faire, I found a line.  

A line...

A LINE!

Memories of the leadup to the parking lot came rushing back to me, and I became engulfed in a terrible panic.  Thoughts of Quark's naked mother did nothing.  In desperation, I focused my mental energy on the line itself.  

"Speed up." I thought vehemently, "SPEEEED THE FUCK UP!"  

To my amazement, my psychic outburst worked!  Except, instead of speeding up my line, it sped up every line except my own.  The bartender for my line writhed in pain, as time warped and slowed about her.  People around me began to gag and vomit, as the gravometric distortions wreaked havoc on their sense of time and balance.  

An uninterrupted stream of vomit across my chest awoke me from my distress.  Realizing my thirst was driving me mad, and distorting the time-space continuum was not going to help, I refocused my mind, and thought of the only thing more calming than Moogie.  Something I only think about in the most dire of straits.  

I thought of the time Quark was a woman and flashed his new tits:

What, you thought that list from Part 1 was made up?  NOPE.

A magical Renn Faire peace passed over me, and once again, before I knew it, I was at the front of the line, purchasing two Ocktoberfest ales, standing in line again, purchasing two more, and then chugging all four beers in a row.  

At last, the Renaissance Faire had begun...

...TO BAH CONCLUDAD!

Keep it Stankin'

Shamrocktober Sky, Part 1: The Return from Durp Space

As an internet writer of a piddling blog, I can be accused of many of the sins of internet bloggers who specialize in piddling.  I can, for example, be accused of making more and more infrequent posts.  I can be accused of making less interesting and more slapdash attempts at literary amusement.  I can be accused of loathsome sloth, as many of my fellow neckbeards so often are.

I could be accused of these things.  But such accusations would be false...

BECAUSE I BLAME OCTOBER!

Nestled as I am on the American East Coast, October is the last of the "Good Months" before the all-out ball-stomping suckaducksdongfest that are November, December, January, and that despicable old schoolmarm of a month, Febu-fuck-its-cold-and-sucks-and-if-im-single-i-get-painfully-reminded-of-being-single-and-if-im-seeing-somebody-i-have-to-do-a-bunch-of-fancy-shit-on-a-weeknight-and-id-rather-not-ary.  October is my final huzzah.  

In other words, I had shit going on.  Like what, you ask?

I'm a big baseball fan, so when my two regional teams, the Nationals and the Orioles, both got into the playoffs, I was J-ing my P's like a B on a Z.  October Baseball, at long last, was home again...

WELL GUESS HOW THAT WENT???

Lookeemee!  I didn't want to use the headsplosion from Scanners again, so instead I made this lovely piece of art!  

After the MLB became dead to me for yet another year, I blasted some "Long December" by Counting Crows on repeat, threw my tear-and-piss-and-shit-stained pants back in my dresser, and dragged my headsploded self into bed.  The resulting torpor lasted a week, and when I awoke, the world reeked of ash and sulfur.  It was at this point that I remembered that I live next to a sulfur factory, which made my abysmal melancholy only worse.  I had to seek comfort whilst I recuperated.  Which brings me to...

ERR MER GERRRD U GERRS!!!!  AH DEED ERRR PHURTURRSHURP!!!

Shhchtar Trek: Deep Schpace Nine is a show that you might imagine, given my previous articles, that I watched as a blossoming young nerd.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  Simpsons took precedent, because this was the 90's, when the Simpsons was not just good, but as immaculate as The  Goose that shat crystal iPads and laid golden snowglobes filled with shimmering visions of really hot porn.  

With the advent of that wonderful American indulgence that is Netflix, I learned of the wonders and perils of DS9.  Still reeling and near-comatose from the dual losses of my beloved Nats and O's, I mustered just enough strength to nudge the buttons on my Wii remote and start the first episode.  With that, my energy was spent, and my body entered a long regenerative phase, much like Odo, one of the show's gooey shapeshifting protagonists.  And speaking of gooey, that's sure what my bed was once I was done watching all seven seasons in a row!  

And what a nougaty treat 'twas!  There were so many moments that I would unironically call "classic", but here are my top six:

1. The crew has to hopscotch for their lives!

2. Dr. Bashir falls in love with a chick in a future-wheelchair, and everybody learns a little something about respecting those with disabilities.  Also, they turn off the gravity and that bitch goes FLYIN!  

3. Lwaxana Troi visits the station and inadvertently causes everybody to make out.

4. During a picnic, O'Brien's young daughter falls into one of those pesky, run-of-the-mill time vortexes that turns girls into cavewomen.

5. Jake gets seduced by a creativity vampire and Lwaxana Troi shows up pregnant. 

6. Quark has to get a sex change because he gave his mother a heart attack, and then flashes his new tits at some dudes.  

After a solid week of watching DS9, and another solid week of digging/chewing/clawing my way out of the fetid slime cocoon that my bed had become, I was a new man.  With baseball purged from my mind, I had to breathe fresh air again.  Wear a harlequin costume again.  Stare at becleavaged women dressed as harlots of yore again.  Craft bone armor out of discarded turkey legs again.  

Off I went to live at the Renaissance Faire.  

As hard to believe as it is, Google Image Search turns up nothing funny when you search "Renaissance Fair", so, uh, yeah, I just picked one.  

TO BAH CONTAHNUAHED!

Keep It Stankin'