"wait, no, I'm not ready" -- "Eat green apple-colored Jello, you slag!"
I had no idea these were real. Right out of the Monster Manual volume 4!!! You have no idea what I am talking about!!!
Page 54! Look at that level 1 warrior struggling. Even I could destroy a gelatinous cube.
Thriller!!! Billy Jean!!! Little Kids!!!
Tubular!!!
Death!!! I'm loving it!
[or birthday, for those unbeeveducated among us]
to Kieran, co-founder of hpm.
i think that a good way to celebrate is for everyone who may read this to buy something from the hpm store.
good idea, no?
The One and Only Toad Cruise
Once upon a time there was a toad named Toad Cruise. He had medium-short, side/wind swept brown hair and wore aviator sunglasses. Toad was an actor but most importantly an approachable bro. He grew up in the country. Our country.
When he was just a youngster, with his tail still attached and everything, an evil farmer named Crik gigged his parents and fried them for breakfast in a cast iron skillet. Crik fried Toad’s parents in garlic butter until they were crisp and savoury. From that point on, Toad Cruises life would never be the same again.
Toad left Our Country and moved to the Big City where he pursued the Universal Dream of Success and Fame. When he moved to the Big City, he had goals of becoming a stud a la Midnight Cowboy, but much like Jon Voight, Toad’s naivete got the better of him and he was soon penniless and living in a sewer grate.
Toad got horribly ill with gout and flu, and as poor and penniless as his was, he decided that the only viable option was to cut his losses and off himself. He was about to hop in front of a car when he saw it…the puppet bike. If you have never seen a puppet bike before, feh on you. Toad Cruise gazed at the puppet bike with astonishment and his little froggy heart filled with joy. Up to the puppet bike he jumped, right onto the stage where the puppets were performing! Toad Cruise joined into the puppet performance with such animated gusto that a large crowd amassed in front of the puppet bike. From that point on, Toad’s success skyrocketed. He became known for his excellent dramatic performances and his hilariously on-point comic timing.
This is Crik. Toad's parents are among those dead frogs in the back of Crik's truck
A few years past and Toad, once kindly and approachable, became jaded. He would throw tantrums and dabble in cults and have extensive, Mariah Carey-like lists of demands. On a cross-country promo tour for his latest blockbuster hit, he verbally insulted his personal assistant so badly that she had a nervous breakdown and downed a bottle of pepto bismal and snorted 5 lines of talcum powder. In her chemical-induced rage, she threw poor Toad out of the RV window. Toad landed in the soft country grass and bounced away, completely shocked and discombobulated.
He hopped for what seemed like days but was actually hours. Usually, he would have a small snack of every half hour and would be misted with purified Tahitian geyser water every 15 minutes. Unmisted and slightly hungry, Toad Cruise bounced right into a Big Ole Beave.
This was no ordinary Beave, but the leader of a prestigious tribe of USDA certified Organic Angus Beaves. The Beave stomped her foot, almost squishing Toad. Blindly panicking and hopping frenetically, Toad tripped over a dandelion, landed flat on his little froggy butt, and passed out. When he came to, he was surrounded by a three large Beaves gazing curiously at him.
“What should we do with him?” said Sterf, the gingery Beave.
“Eat him, of course!” replied Qwerm, the large and twitchy eyed Beave.
“No, he is just a mere lost frog. We will help him return from whence he came. And besides, he lacks meatiness,” spoke the biggest and wisest Beave, the Beave Leader, Bovariana.
Thus was Toad’s fate decided. When he awoke the next morning, he was curled into the Bovariana’s nape.
Bovariana and Toad Cruise cuddling and giggling among the sweet grass.
Quivering slightly, Toad opened his mouth to begin barraging Bovariana with questions. But before he could start, Bovariana spoke reassuringly,
“Small frog, lost and scared you appeared amongst our flock of beaves. Your fate was sealed last night when I and the other elder beaves held council. We will help you return to your home.”
Toad was overjoyed! He and the beaves began a steady march towards the nearest city. On the way, however, the scent of the fresh Country air, filled with buzzing bees, pollinating flowers, raw manure, and the heaving scent of the beaves, revived and reinvigorated Toad’s senses better than all the Kombucha and Kabbalah he had been doing back in the Big City. As the bevy of Beave and Toad got nearer and nearer, the less inclined was Toad to return to his fame and fortune.
Upon the eve of his triumphant return to the city, Bovariana and Toad were sharing a mushroom for dinner when a red hatchback Saab zoomed past them. The Saab halted and backed up ferociously. Bovariana and Toad furtively gazed upon a young, quite disheveled and exhausted looking woman hopped out of the car and sprinted towards them.
“Oh my!” exclaimed Toad, “that’s my old personal assistant!”
Bovariana, who had heard stories of the girls madness, lumbered up to defend Toad.
“Toadie! Oh Toadie Baby! Am I relieved to see you! Ya see, I was just driving out to look for ya! I been lookin for ya ever since our little run in in the RV! Ya see, they, back there in the Big City, think I did you in! They think I was going to take your money and replace you with this frog I got at the pet store! Let’s get you back to the Manse de Cruise, I bet you haven’t been misted in days! Then you can tell those damn detectives that I didn’t kill ya!” did the girl breathily exclaim.
“I’ll take it from here, Bovariana,” said Toad, sauntering over to the girl. “You threw me out of a car, you dumb bitch! I’m not going anywhere with you! Definitely not back to the city. I’m staying here, in nature, where I belong. You see, I’m a just a simple-minded Cruise. I’m not meant for city life, it makes my skin break out into horrible warts. Cruises are meant to be here, in the beautiful meadows and friendly swamps, living with beaves. From this day forth, I pledge myself to this beautiful and benevolent Beave, Bovariana.”
The crazy assistant tried to lunge at the Toad, but Bovariana, so touched by Toad’s words and enraged that someone would try to harm such a sweet creature, took a bite out of the personal assistant. And then another one. And then another one. Then the other beaves came and ate the rest of the girl while Toad Cruise suckled upon Bovariana’s teet.
All this of course takes place in just under 1 moment. Now apply this same scenario to a two-hour-long movie. A strange experience to say the least.
Well, getting to meat of the matter, Spock is gay. Now I’m not talking the kind of gay where you have a lot of butt-sex and sport assless chaps and a mustache made out of the condom you will end up not using, no. This is the kind of gay where you really like musicals shopping on the weekend and brunch. The lisp, the high-pitched voice and the anal retentiveness, not to mention the stylish haircut do not lend themselves to the logical, non-gay Vulcans Yes, I know Spock and the African ear-girl are hot and heavy and he might not be actually homosexual, but Spock is totally gay.
The villain: Lame. Lame and troubled and overly dramatic like all the other star-trek villains. Time paradoxes rarely work in a movie, and this is no exception. Predatory alien animals are not as retarded as that big red thing on the ice planet - there would be no roaring then eating. There would only be eating.
Also, there is this:
_kieran
does anyone like pulp?
this is a call to all of those who believe pulp is a valid object in this world,
either as a food product
a section of a drink
or a stand alone identity.
i would like to hear a good argument for pulp.
one that doesn’t mention how its exactly like sandy water
or salt water
or like drinking from a fish tank.
pulp. noun. the soft, juicy, edible part of a fruit.
barf. verb. induced by pulp.
octopus. noun. raw, boiled and pickled, sautéed, deep-fried or for more mature specimens, simmered or boiled for several hours. delicious.
-jfrank
everyday another person fights their way though europe
searching for treasure or lost feet
maybe one day theyll learn the truth about salmon
^that was a poem.
who invented poetry? i didnt. and yet somehow i can still write a great poem.
somehow..
poems are so full of poetry though. its kind of sickening.
remember when you thought poems had to rhyme? like in 2nd grade when they made us memorize that book “Alexander and the Terrible horrible no good very bad day” in between making little versions of ourselves out of paper and reporting on the weather.
oh and dr. seuss. once he died. and we had a funeral for him. i bet he apprechiated that. in some sort of rhyming way. or maybe dead people cant rhyme.
but fish can rhyme. always. even when theyre not stuck in those six pack plastic things.
native americans probably taught bison to rhyme, right before they killed them all.
too bad. a bison may have been the first dr. seuss.
but then came shakespeare. and all those other people who wrote sonnets. i guess some of them were from italy…? i dont remember. who remembers sonnets.
sonnets have alot of rules. all of which i like to break.
no A B A B. no quatrains. no couplets. none of the above.
I wont even get into haikus. or those poems where you write one word down the side with a letter to start each line. why is that even a thing. people abuse the expandabitliy of abbreviations. i bet “etc” doesnt approve. neither does NASA.
whos that guy that likes to organize poems really randomly? and not use punctuation? it begins with an E. ah how could i forget.. well. use your imagination.
he should maybe get into typography and out of poetry, so as to stop spreading his poetry too thin. like stretching a tiny piece of skin over a giant drum head.
i rather like having skin.
-jfrank
I needed some inspiration for a strip club name and lo and behold the topic had already come up several times. I found this delightfully retarded conversation among the posts:
manyhaha said:
Blue Ball Bill”s House Of Hoes
tarafara said:
blue balls, do you think alot of guys will go there……..lol
DaveMcBrayer said:
No, I wouldnt because that means there is no private room.
tarafara said:
maybe they do have a private room, but you’re not allowed to “finish”
manyhaha said:
It’s a misnomer to keep the cops away
Thus ends one of the most glorious moment in the history of planned conversation. It was over too quick. Funny thing is, the conversation consists of posts updated over several days. Who said the internet is making things go faster.