Date: February 25th, 2010 12:12 PM Author: Vivacious lilac headpube
BooR sits in the third row pew of the Igreja Adventista do Sétimo Dia de Moema staring at the ceiling saying novinas to peter the great and clenching his fists
Date: February 25th, 2010 12:21 PM Author: Vivacious lilac headpube
Bothered sees a small child selling refurbished soccer balls, his hand instinctively moves towards his breast pocket, where he keeps timmy's rabbit's foot. "It would be third period right now," he says to no one in particular.
Date: February 25th, 2010 12:37 PM Author: Vivacious lilac headpube
An unctuous priest treads close to BooR. His sense of human needs does not reach BooR, what BooR needs. Mistakes of this sort are made every day. Consequences can be grave in Sampa.
BooR's bald pate gleams dully even in the low light. The priest stifles a gasp when he sees a rosary bead crumble in the man's hand. Not wood these beads. The beads are misshapen and irregular; the color of a windburnt pilgrim.
Date: February 25th, 2010 1:19 PM Author: Vivacious lilac headpube
A policeman blocks Bothered's way. "Aonde você está indo com essa faca?" he asks, his tone almost pleading, his accustomed aggressive authority absent from his stance.
Bothered adjusts his glasses on his nose and smiles wryly. "Avatar only made $16 million this weekend," he says, touching the officer's shoulder gently. The cop stands aside, mouth slightly agape. "Que é este homem?" he mutters to himself.
Date: February 25th, 2010 1:23 PM Author: Vivacious lilac headpube
The door creaks sullenly as BooR enters his hotel room. He walks into the bathroom and looks down at the bathtub filled with melting ice. "When I am for medical school Anitchka, kidney will no longer such problem." The hand peeking above the ice does not answer.
Date: February 25th, 2010 1:58 PM Author: Vivacious lilac headpube
A blinking marquee reads "Lua Nova Crepuscular" in pastel neon. Bothered looks into the pock-marked face of the pubescent ticket taker and says, "I must remember who I am and what is important if his life is to truly have meaning."
The ticket taker stares back levely and asks in unexpectedly unaccented english, "Soo, one for New Moon then, sir?"
"Of course my son."
"From the mouth of babes," muses Bothered as he removes the filet o' fish he had concealed in his coat pocket.
Date: February 25th, 2010 2:51 PM Author: Vivacious lilac headpube
BooR gently removes a 1989 Müller-Catoir Eiswein from the tub and deftly strikes the nape of the bottle against the ledge of the sink. He greedily presses the jagged bottle to his lips and takes a long pull of the nectar within. He looks at his reflection in the warped mirror and licks the blood from his lips, “Krauts know nothing of fighting in snow, but avoiding cake has the strange fellows of bed.”
Date: February 25th, 2010 4:49 PM Author: Vivacious lilac headpube
Bothered’s Tevas pad softly across the stone floor of the church.
The priest, rising from his prayers, starts at the pale apparition and nearly exclaims, “João Mendes de Silva?" before noting the cino-american features.
Bothered strides purposefully to the third row and sneers, “It smells of beets and Bolsheviks in here, priest,” he nearly spits.
He bends down and gingerly picks up the largest part of the discarded rosary and whispers, “Can you hear me BooR? It’s almost time.”
The priest,, badly shaken for the second time that day, crosses himself as the man walks back out the door.
Date: February 25th, 2010 5:35 PM Author: Vivacious lilac headpube
In the alley by the church stands a tall, silent man who no one has ever met. The shadows hide him from prying eyes, but a careful observer might think himself staring into the face of a Gypsy King. In his hand is a book, but the fingers of a pianist or a surgeon or a god obscure the title; only the letters “Vinel” are visible, no matter how close you care to look. On his feet are a pair of worn sneakers; sneakers an editor of SLAM! Magazine might recognize as the immortal Air Dual-D 2K6s. And on his lips are these words, “Ain’t nothing but a stranger in this world. I’m nothing but a stranger in this world.” Down his cheek rolls a single tear for what is surely to come.
Date: February 25th, 2010 7:00 PM Author: Vivacious lilac headpube
As BooR hoists himself up for his three hundredth pull-up, the rattling of his trophies finally draws his attention. He alights gracefully and rubs his hand across his bare torso, his scarred muscles rippling. His stomach is covered by a curious tattoo drawn in the faded black of prison ink. The words say, HOW TO DEFEAT A COP (BOOR), and beneath there is picture of a prone stickfigure, the head with its crude policeman’s cap lying near a pool of viscous black.
Date: February 25th, 2010 9:32 PM Author: Vivacious lilac headpube
And the man with the Gypsy King face walks quietly through Avenida Paulista as the wind screams the names of lost friends. A band of urchins skitter around his legs begging for treats. "Why should things be easy to understand?" he asks.
Date: February 25th, 2010 11:08 PM Author: Vivacious lilac headpube
The Bovespa rises for the first time in days, but there is a pall over the city. The taste of danger and cold rage is on everyone's tongue. "I am not led, I lead," says the city. You are a liar Sao Paulo, your fate is no longer yours to decide.
Date: February 26th, 2010 11:59 AM Author: Vivacious lilac headpube
The clock in Bothered’s head goes off at 5:00 AM. It is a banker’s clock, a teacher’s clock, the clock of a relentless hunter who can sense that his quarry is near. The feet of Bothered’s pajamas make a light slapping sound on the hardwood floor as he pads to the bathroom to relieve himself.
“Today is the day,” he mutters darkly.
Though anxious for the clash of steel on bone, he flips on his laptop in the darkness. Obama has made another unforgivable gaff and there are articles to post. Important business that simply cannot wait.
Fortunately, revenge, like an Oreo McFlurry, is a dish best served cold.
Date: February 26th, 2010 12:39 PM Author: Vivacious lilac headpube
BooR rises with the majesty of Da�bog, both god of cold sun and shepherd of wolves, his eyes unclouded, already bright with malice. BooR’s fingers tenderly caress the trophies around his neck.
One for each obstacle in the ceaseless rise of BooR; he lingers gently over each as is his routine. The Elder of Zion® in an abandoned slaughterhouse in Red Hook, Trustafarian, crying on his knees on the dock in Yakutat, that night he caught up with ¶etro in the red light district of Mumbai. So very many triumphs. Now this.
“For weak useless child?” asks BooR, "Even Yusef did not have place for him. Why such trouble?"
Date: February 26th, 2010 2:04 PM Author: Vivacious lilac headpube
A hundred kilometers to the Southeast outside a town called Maresias, the man with the Gypsy King face paddles slowly but purposefully out into the surf.
Normally a hub of the tourist trade, the beach is quiet, as if the ocean knows that the man needs time alone with his thoughts.
On the shore, a wizened Mayoruna man spears trash with a practiced hand, but increasingly finds his eyes drawn to the tall man on the longboard. The words come unbidden, “Who can he be,” asks the man to the sand, “Who can he be?”
Date: February 26th, 2010 2:39 PM Author: Vivacious lilac headpube
A man of routine is a man of discipline, this above all else Bothered knows. But temptation is ever a fickle mistress. Tres McMuffin Sausage con Ovo as a matter of course, yes; but dois Pao de queijo, as well? Dare he? He dares.
Date: February 27th, 2010 3:43 PM Author: Vivacious lilac headpube
BooR sits in a crowded brasserie shoveling hunks of Bolo de fubá cremoso into his maw and crying softly.
“You suck my cock boy,” he sobs to himself. He repeats it over and over again as if it were a mantra, a verbal talisman to ward off forces beyond his control.
His fellow patrons are nervous, jiggling their legs and glancing around at one another for support. Before anyone dares disturb him, BooR springs from his chair without warning and breaks into a blind sprint, crashing through tables and upending small children, tears still streaming down his face.
Date: March 1st, 2010 1:04 PM Author: Vivacious lilac headpube
The man with the Gypsy King face lies in the sand, thinking of better times. As the sun dries his dark skin, he nods slowly to himself as if he has walked along the Wanagi Tacaku and found his answers waiting there.
“Death is a debt to nature due, which I have paid and so must you,” he says. “Will you stop for me, Death?”
Date: March 1st, 2010 1:52 PM Author: Vivacious lilac headpube
The walk was good for his constitution and the articles have been given time to germinate. The response is overwhelming; four unique posts in one thread, eleven in another, seventeen in a third. The education of America’s jaded youth is a never-ending task, but one Bothered embraces with relish. There are some immutable truths in this life: Blu Ray will die when there is digital means of owning content, Obama is a Pinko, a strict diet of Wendy’s is important for the maintenance of body and soul, and come what will, BooR will die today.
Bothered runs the blade of his kabar knife across the palm of his hand drawing a line of beaded scarlet.
“I swear it to you,” he says to the rabbit’s foot.
Date: March 1st, 2010 10:56 PM Author: Vivacious lilac headpube
There is no Wendy’s In Sao Paulo. No Wendy’s. Not even the one. But Bothered is a citizen of the internet, BooR is a citizen of the internet. Inevitable, inexorable, intractable BooR; he knows things. Like Google. Like Bob’s hamburgers. Like waiting.
BooR snaps the neck of the fry chef quietly, tenderly even. He removes his tattered National Guard uniform and is born anew. It is only a matter of time. BooR has waited six years to go to Medical School, he can wait a little while longer.
Date: March 1st, 2010 11:09 PM Author: Vivacious lilac headpube
At a blue and yellow table stained in spats of dried catsup and lubricated with children’s tears sits the tall man. He has not sampled Bob's wares, an aesthete perhaps. He does nothing in fact, hardly moves, but in his stillness there is a mania, a Roman Triumph, a Navajo rain dance, a Donizetti Aria. He too waits. He too is inexorable.
Date: March 1st, 2010 11:30 PM Author: Vivacious lilac headpube
More satyr of Dionysus than mortal man, Bothered had mowed through three meals at the arches no worse for wear. Could he go again? Sure, no sniveling weakling, no disease-riddled ectomorph he. But something is missing. That something, of course, is the red-haired pixie who crafts Bothered’s ambrosia with loving care.
Click. No Wendy’s in all of Brazil. Click. No new motion on the threads. Click. Fast food in Brazil?. Click. That will do, sounds as American as apple pie and freedom fries. Rumble. Time to go.
Date: March 1st, 2010 11:40 PM Author: Nighttime dopamine
Where would the fun be in that? Careful thought would have told you that what seems inconceivable to sickly ectomorphs on here can easily be processed by my billy goat gut.
Date: March 5th, 2010 1:02 AM Author: Vivacious lilac headpube
Bothered swings open the door of Bob’s Hamburgers.
We expect peals of thunder, siren wails, a Morricone score searing our brains; but we are disappointed. There is only the smacking of lips and mindless chewing of processed meat, the shrill cries of errant children, and the smooth crooning of Pat Boone.
Though his ample stomach rumbles, Bothered’s eyes are clear.
He scans the room pensively, taking in the scene before him. A bovine matron, lipstick akimbo, sullenly smacks her gum and makes change. A bored tween pokes desultorily at her salad as her little brother frolics boisterously beneath the table. A Japanese businessman shovels food into his maw whilst ranting into his mobile. A powerfully built fry chef, fifteen hands tall, holds a butcher’s cleaver backhand.
Wrong.
But too late.
BooR vaults the counter with a guttural cry. He totters bowlegged but with alarming speed. Bothered reaches into his waistband for his own blade, a Terracotta warrior far from home, and charges forward. But before the clash of steel on steel, will on will, both stop as if caught on a string.
He is there. Betwixt the two gladiators stands the man with the Gypsy King face looking for all the world like St. Stephen.
“You do not want to do this,” he says quietly.
Bothered and BooR, Boor and Bothered, what can they do? They stand spellbound, frozen in the petrified ichor of the moment.
But they are men of will these two, these villainous heroes, these titans of the internet, and they charge forward, heedless.
Only to be stopped short. Hands of steel close around throats, one marble, one topaz.
“Thinkest thou this to be right, that thou saidst, My righteousness is more than Whokebe's?”
They attempt to speak, but words cannot be summoned.
Just as suddenly, two bodies lie on the dirty floor, two throats, clutched lightly in the dark man’s hands.
He stares out calmly into the middle distance and says, “Thou shalt not bow down thyself to them, nor serve them: for I the Lord thy Whokebe am a jealous Whokebe, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me.”
He turns on his heel and walks though the door and into the dusky evening.
Date: April 27th, 2010 2:05 AM Author: brass faggotry cruise ship
now don't you go fucking telling him i said so, and i'm being fucking serious here, but the random sequence motherfucker is one of my favorite posters.