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Listen, son...; We need to have a talk.
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Topic Started: Jan 22 2009, 02:37 AM (377 Views)
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Heavy Metal Hero
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Jan 22 2009, 02:37 AM
Post #1
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Fuck updating things.
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- April 13, 2006
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Listen, son, we need to have a talk. This isn't going to be easy for either of us. You are not my son. I'm sorry, I know this will come as a blow to you. But the fact is, no son of mine plays Oregon Trail like you do.
The first sign something was wrong was when I watched you choose the banker as your occupation to start a game. The banker? Really? Were you not aware that the banker has no point modifier?
For some time, I managed to convince myself that you preferred the banker simply because his vast resources allowed you to purchase the maximum number of oxen. I was sure that you were attempting to set a speed record of some sort. Of course, I knew that the game limited you to 40 miles a day regardless of the number of oxen, but I thought you would figure that out for yourself. But you weren't about to figure anything out. Not about Oregon Trail, and not about life.
At Matt's General Store, you picked a "logical" assortment of goods to ensure that your party was healthy and secure the entire way to Oregon. You even purchased clothing for the members of your party, for Christ's sake. It was clear that you valued the banker's fourfold cash advantage over the farmer's point multiplier of three. And because of that preference, and many other choices along the trail, you are clearly another man's son.
Can't you see that Oregon Trail is a microcosm of life? I'm sure you've seen my high score on the computer: 8,040 points. Did you know that for years people considered 8,000 points impossible? You don't get a score like that by playing it safe and taking the banker. You get a score like that by selecting the farmer, purchasing only oxen and ammo, setting a "grueling" pace, and feeding your party "bare-bones" rations.
How many gold medals would Michael Phelps have won if all he cared about was making it across the pool? How many championships would Jordan have if all he'd wanted to do was dribble the ball down the court? Sure, you can make it across the country in relative comfort. But let me ask you this: How many spare wagon wheels do you think Michael Phelps takes with him? Why not push a naked, starving family to the brink of collapse and hunt your ass off for food all the way to Oregon? Isn't that what Jordan would do?
Son, when you make the decision at South Pass to head for Fort Bridger instead of the Green River, you're making a choice to take the easy route. Why? Because you're afraid the wagon won't make it across the river? Son, Fort Bridger takes you 86 miles out of your way!
Maybe your fat, well-dressed pioneers are happy for the extra time on the trail, but I wonder how happy they'll be when they make it to Oregon and all they have to start their new lives is a bunch of fancy clothing and a few spare wagon axles.
I once completed the trail having survived three broken wagon wheels. It took me 10 days to find an Indian to trade with for the third wheel, and I still scored 6,000 points. The other day, I saw you quit the trail immediately after your wagon capsized in the Kansas River. You lost only an ox and a hundred pounds of food. I drank myself to sleep that night.
Speaking of food, it almost seems like you don't even like to hunt. When you do, you fire randomly at anything that moves. Let me make it simple for you, son: a bullet costs 10 cents, a pound of food costs 20 cents. If you're not averaging a half pound of food per bullet, you're wasting points. So I hope it was fun firing 10 times at that squirrel, which, I feel obligated to add, you never actually hit.
I can see that this is all very upsetting. I'm sorry. I know that this is a lot for an 8-year-old to absorb. I wish I were better at comforting you. Your real father, most likely a banker of some kind himself, probably is. I'm sure he also has a lot of money. I don't—I'm just the guy responsible for the 8,040.
Son, you may not share my genetic material, but that doesn't mean I'm going to let you grow up this way. So start a new game, select the farmer, try to think like Michael Phelps, and let's see how many buffalo we can kill on the way to Oregon.
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- MATTHEW,May 28 2012
- 04:14 AM
I'm an elitist, pompous, arrogant, twat that acts like such a tough guy on message boards because I'm a giant pussy in real life. Truth is, I'm a huge fag and the fact that I wrote a long post comes from my deep-seeded desire to to shove as many cocks into any oriface I have.
I'm an asshole and nobody likes me, so I cry myself to sleep at night because strangers on a message board don't get my depth of character, so rather than improve my attitude, I just pretend to be House and act like I don't care.
I still wet the bed and my parents love me but I ignore them so I can seem tortured soul and feign misery so people will be sympathetic when in fact I'm just a miserable douche. [/center]
24-11 (11/07/01) 1x Undisputed Champion of Internet Wrestling 1x PRW Tag Team Champion






















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Aries
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Jan 22 2009, 02:48 AM
Post #2
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*bop*
- Posts:
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god dammit, i <3 you
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 Let's Boogie
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Pimpdizzle
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Jan 22 2009, 10:12 AM
Post #3
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The Berserker
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- August 10, 2005
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Listen, /b/, we need to have a talk. This isn't going to be easy for either of us. You are not my /b/ of old. I'm sorry, I know this will come as a blow to you. But the fact is, no Moot of mine plays Oregon Trail like you do.
The first sign something was wrong was when I watched you choose the Pedobear as your occupation to start a game. The Pedobear? Really? Were you not aware that the Pedobear has no point modifier(Save the fact he can bring as many children as he wants, Just mouths to feed.)?
For some time, I managed to convince myself that you preferred the Pedobear simply because his vast resources allowed you to purchase the maximum number of children. I was sure that you were attempting to set a loliraep record of some sort. Of course, I knew that the game limited you to over 9000 miles a day regardless of the number of child slaves, but I thought you would figure that out for yourself. But you weren't about to figure anything out. Not about Oregon Trail, and not about 4chan.
At WT Snack's General Store, you picked a "logical" assortment of goods to ensure that your party was high and drunk the entire way to Oregon. You even purchased fleshlights for the members of your party, for Christ's sake. It was clear that you valued the Pedo's fourfold cash advantage over the EpicWinGuy's point multiplier of over 9000. And because of that preference, and many other choices along the trail, you are clearly another man's /b/.
Can't you see that Oregon Trail is a meme of 4chan? I'm sure you've seen my high score on the computer: 9,040 points. Did you know that for years people considered over 9,000 points impossible? You don't get a score like that by playing it safe and taking the Pedo. You get a score like that by selecting the EpicWinGuy, purchasing only N****** and ammo(to shoot at the N******), setting a "grueling" pace, and feeding your party "bare-bones" rations.
How many 4chan gold accounts would our N**** friends have won if all they cared about was making it across the closed AIDS pool? How many epic lulz would Trolls have if all they'd wanted to do was fap to themselves, and not the camwhores? Sure, you can make it across the PENIS in relative comfort. But let me ask you this: How many spare wagon wheels do you think N**** friends take with them to the pool? Why not push a naked, starving family of children and N****** to the brink of collapse and hunt your ass off for food all the way to Oregon? Isn't that what Trolls would do?
Son, when you make the decision at your explorer window to head for Gaia instead of the Chans, you're making a choice to take the easy route. Why? Because you're afraid the wagon won't make it across the AIDS? Son, Gaia takes you over 9000 miles out of your way!
Maybe your fat, well-dressed white supremicists are happy for the extra time on the back of N******, but I wonder how happy they'll be when they make it to Bel-Air and all they have to start their new lives is a bunch of fancy code and a few spare fleshlights.
I once completed the trail having survived three broken wagon wheels. It took me 10 days to find an Indian to trade with for the third wheel, and I still scored 6,000 points. The other day, I saw you quit the trail immediately after your wagon capsized in the Kansas River. You lost only an ox and a hundred pounds of food. I overdosed myself to fits of seizures from the Pokemans that night.
Speaking of food, it almost seems like you don't even like to raid. When you do, you fire randomly at 13 year olds in the lobby. Let me make it simple for you, /b/: a bullet costs 10 cents, a trolling of epic proportion costs 20 cents. If you're not averaging a half pound of troll per bullet, you're wasting bandwith. So I hope it was fun firing 10 times at that undrageb&, which, I feel obligated to add, you never actually hit.
I can see that this is all very upsetting. I'm not sorry. I know that this is a lot for an 8-year-old to absorb. I wish I were better at spiking you. Your real father, most likely a Pedo of some kind himself, probably is. I'm sure he also has a lot of CP. I don't—I'm just the guy responsible for the 9,040.
Son, you may not share my genetic material, but that doesn't mean I'm going to let you grow up this way. So start a new game, epic win guy, try to think like Raptor Jesus, and let's see how many buffaloN****** we can kill on the way to Bel-Air. Now, this is a story all about how my life got flipped-turned upside down and I liked to take a minute, just sit right there, I'll tell you how I became the prince of a town called Bel Air.
---Fix'd
I WANT TO SEE MORE Fix'd OF THIS. (AKA slightly offensive copypasta, in black so that Aries doesn't insta-rage)
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