Freedivers: Narcisistic Selfish Insidelooking angry people?

[jay cluskey]

i like armadillos

[drunkinbda]

..and fluffy rabbit slippers..

[Erik]

Fondueset for President.

[chrismar]

Never trust a man who, when left in a room alone with a tea cosy, does not try it on.

[kmo]

Hey!

[ILDiver]

Wow, this thread has it all! I don't drink and I'm lactose intolerant.... So I just want a Dolphinoplasty

[fcallagy]

class pete but just let us know exactly what you were on please we want some too so dont go hogging it all for yourself.

[Fondueset]

Laminar's story, while true, is also a cautionary tale about the consequences of serial breath-holds.

Hey, since everyone is talking about me I'll hold forth a little.

First, if elected I will appoint Sarah Palin to be my press secretary. I'm pretty sure this will be to everyone's advantage. I'll probably also order up a podium that shows a little more leg.

Next - How is it that Texan's are so blase' about armadillos!? Are they unable to see how WEIRD those things are?

[island_sands]

Originally Posted by laminar

Seven degrees of separation. Go!

Complete the 7-steps...

1. Narcissist Freedivers
2. Whip or monofin, honey?
3. Blame Canada
4. "Sir, she's gone from suck to blow!"
5. "Your toys are fun to touch. Mine are all sticky." (for BennyB)
6. Days of wine and vinyl.
7. Lying on a beach, in a black wetsuit, inscrutable secret agent smirk hanging down on one side, martini in hand, speargun ready to discharge at the slightest provocation.

And then up walks the woman known only as Sands. Well, actually Island Sands. But her friend call he George.

"Hello, Ms. Sands, lovely day for a martini, isn't it?"

Just then a giant fist, with thumb and pinky extended along the longitudinal axis floats along behind her and says, "Wakka, wakka, wakka, give me back my sandwich."

As Ms. Sands raises an eyebrow and punctuates it with a flick of her golden locks over one shoulder, a spring of pure warm chocolate bubbles up from a small hole in the sand next to her feet, just above the tide line. It whistles Dixie and blows rings of icing into the air while simultaneously making the sand feel dirty.

A raised 007 eyebrow. "Care for some fondue?"

Ms. Sands, shakes her head with the satisfaction of a housecat with a moth in its jaws and brandishes a cold spoon. A great big cold spoon made of chrome and wood and plastic.

The lines on our hero's forehead deepen and furrow. He looks down the barrel, er, the shaft, um....curve of the spoon.

"End of the line, Monsieur Narcissist. I have you surrounded," Ms. Sands purrs.

"I should be more frightened if you had a whip or a monofin, but I do like the sound of that, so, the answer is yes. Yes, please. Spoon me."

Before the woman they call Island - for after all if no man can be an island it's easy enough for a superlative woman like Sands to step into the role - a small man in a cowboy hat with two six shooters in hand, emerges from the ocean, hissing and bubbling, in the style of the Creature from the Black Lagoon meets Aphrodite.

"I'm drunk or soon to be hungover," snarls the little man, and raises his gun in the direction of Ms. Sands. "So gimme the spoon!"

Is it a double cross of cold spoon war proportions? Should Ms. Sands join our hero to defeat an even greater enemy? Is the natural fondue spring edible or at least dark chocolate?

Find out next time on....The Island of [sorry, we interrupt this broadcast with the results of the US election six days in advance and thanks to our universe destroying time line mucking up friends at the Hadron Collider: Paris Hilton has been added to the Republic ticket by a computer hack of the electronic voting systems and is now in control of the big red button that should absolutely and positively never ever be pushed by anyone except perhaps accidentally by the guy from Dr. Strangelove (ohh, that would have been a hoot, dearie) or a vicious Chihuahua. With Hilton on the ticket, Obamas support swung away like a boom in a sudden backing wind and knocked him out of contention. All hail President Hilton. At least hotels will be better from now on.]

Mr. Scott, Sir, I do hope that you literary talent is not going to waste..... fantastic stuff.

.................................

Island Sands, feeling a little podge-y after so many Martinis - walks down the beach a little shaken, and also stirred by the fact that chocolate bubbles arise around her, releasing an aromatic scent that wafts around her olfactory organs like the tantalising veil of a belly dancer.... She reels at the thought of Fondueset appearing with his marshmallows on stalks waiting to be dipped....

The man in the cowboy has dropped his gun and is brandishing his fondue forks brazenly, waiting to dual Sands with her cold spoons. PoseidonSV stands on the sidelines, wondering when these strangely dressed freedivers are going to stop being so selfish and share the fun.

The dark chocolate trickles down Sands back and enters the dimpled area of her back and Laminar awaits to laminate....waving his Canadian flag and BennyB also appears eager but unfortunately his mouth is glued together (much to the disappoint of Sands).

The tide comes in, and an array of black clad freedivers appear behind the one that first appeared with his inscrutable smirk... Mr. X and company come in with the catch, but this time its not fish, but olives for the martinis and Sands stands her ground facing the cowboy and suddenly realises that this is not the Bahamas, but Lake Wisconsin.... as its really cold and the figure hugging wetsuits of the cold freedivers don't reveal much....

[ILDiver]

Originally Posted by island_sands

but Lake Wisconsin.... as its really cold and the figure hugging wetsuits of the cold freedivers don't reveal much....

The wetsuits are very warm and there is much to be revealed! It's like Christmas, you have to unwrap the package for the great gift!

[jay cluskey]

meanwhile , back at the thread..............

so posiedon ,are all free divers narcisistic angry people, basicaly ba$$tards

or slightly suffering from lasting narcossis or just plain lunatics..

[jay cluskey]

Originally Posted by Erik

Fondueset for President.

you know roy nexus is gonna dissagree mate

[Kars]

I'm not sure the Island can please all the freedivers, maybe that's a good cause for them to turn to a state of vengeful Narcissism? Who knows how the sage will continue, a fantastic exercise that's in a way much more revealing than those polite balanced opinions. Keep 'm up people ;-)

Love, Courage and Water,

Kars

[billieball]

Maybe Poseidon saw our breathe-ups, thought we were just staring intently at our own reflections in the water (ala Narcissus), and figured we were really in love with ourselves. If he'd stuck around a bit longer, he'd have seen us initiate our dives, maybe reach our goals, THEN he'd know that we REALLY DO love ourselves?!

[laminar]

Why, Sands, my darling, you can be sure my literary talent IS going to waste. I shouldn't want to have it amount to something. Now THAT would be tacky.

Ahem.

Snuggle under the covers, my darlings. Here is part two:

*Two weeks ago. London, or was it Guelph, Ontario? I forget.*

Mr. Narcissist strode out into the brilliant sunshine of a warm September day. His suit was pressed, it hugged his legs like the skin of a banana around..a banana and gave him a meaningful look of this (his banana clinging skin) means I mean business. Oh...you know what I mean.

As he rounded a nondescript corner in the downtown core, nondescript save for a prostitute in need of a shave, an unemployed banker (actually seventeen of them) and fifteen ducks, he nearly plowed into a round, nondescript man, who would have happily gone unnoticed except for the t-shirt that proclaimed him as HAIKU MAN!

"Oh crap," said Mr. Narcissist, dropping, for an instant, his double oh seven pseudo-Scottish accent and sounding very much like a white trash resident of Guelph's outer reaches. No offense to outer reaches.

Mr. Haiku stepped back and fixed Mr. N with a look that could only be described as brief, poetic and a wistful nostalgia for cherry blossoms and ritual suicide.

Haiku opened his mouth -- and Mr. Narcissist stopped him with a raised finger.

"Before you torture me with your dreadful Haikus," he said, "I should warn you. I've learned my lesson and you won't get the best of me this time."

Mr. Haiku opened his mouth to speak and again, our secret agent man cut him off.

"Not yet!" Mr. Narcissist said. "We'd better make this formal. After all, since I'm to beat you, I want everyone to hear about it."

Mr. N straightened the tie of his suit. Did I mention it fit like a banana skin around a nearly ripe banana? Well, it did. Trust me.

"I challenge you to a duel."

Mr. Haiku smiled a queer smile (the pre-modern meaning of queer, not the reclaimed one) and tipped his bowler in Mr. N's direction. Yes, I know, I forgot to mention the bowler. Or that Mr. Haiku has no feet. He has hooves and a great big boil growing out of his shoulder. No, sorry, that was that movie about the advertising executive who starts growing on evil twin out of a big boil on his neck. What a brilliant movie. I want to say Richard E. Grant, but I might be wrong. How scary to think that a boil could suck your brain out of your head and into it's own puss-filled noggin. Ewggkklk. That movie really shook me. So Mr. Haiku is not one to attract the ladies. Except for his skill with Haikus, which doesn't make up for the boil. Sort of like Cyrano de Bergerac. Big, big nose. A wizard with words. Funny, how no one in that play explored the uses of a big nose. No doubt there is an internet porn site devoted to the subject. (goes and looks) Yep. Wish I hadn't seen that.... Hmm. Will a future employer goggle - no, sorry - google my name and find this post?? What will he or she think? Note to self, start your own business and hire yourself. Wait. Already self-employed. Good. Would I hire myself if I had seen this thread after I had written it? Would need to have my future self to wait long enough and then travel back in time to hire myself just after having written this post? Heck, if I could travel back in time, I wouldn't need to hire myself for anything. Like shooting me own grandfather! I could just open a travel agency and sell tickets to the first bridge game ever held. It was during the black plague - little known fact - nothing better to do when you've got flesh eating boils (there we go again) and contagious. Bridge: something you play while waiting to die. Discuss. Oooh. That struck close to home. Never hear of teenagers playing bridge, do ya?

ANYWAY!

Mr. Haiku smirked and cleared his throat:

Cherry Blossoms

Mr. Narcissist
I will kill you easily.
A horse neighs, mournful.

Mr. N grimaces in pain, his mind racing he thinks of a reply:

Bad, Bad Man

No, Mr. Haiku.
A horse with no adverb -
Simply loves the hay.

As the two battled back and forth, Haikus flashing between them like bullets - no, like the missiles of hot, hot war - passers by clutched their heads in agony, the ear shattering sheer badness of each pretentious pseudo sentiment piercing the soft jelly of their brains.

Mr. Narcissist lay panting on the ground, face bloodied, bleeding from the eyes, nose mouth, ears and belly button. He wondered if this was it. Would he have to get his new suit dry-cleaned so soon?

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Mr. Haiku towered over him. Well, not quite. He sort of leaned threateningly. I did mention that he was only three foot nine. I didn't? Oh, sorry. Well, that's how tall he was. How about a little suspension of disbelief, shall we?

Mr. Haiku TOWERED!!!!! over him. "I've got you now!"

Fooled You

Happy Happy and -
Joy Joy. Happy, happy and -
bloodsucking leeches!!!!

Mr. Narcissist struggled not to black out from that frontal assault as Mr. Haiku giggled and danced a higgedy-piggeldy dance and laughed uproariously at his own joke. Mr. N had to admit it was actually somewhat funny, which didn't help him cling to life whatsoever.

His vision narrowing, Mr. Narcissist remembered his fifth grade teacher, Miss Moneypenny. A lover of poetry, real poetry. She sneered at Haiku. "It's TRANSLATED," she once said. "Stripped of meaning in a language made for blabbing on and on. You can't use classic Japanese and translate into the language of the Beatles, Valley Girls, and Chris Rock. It's just wrong. Like scratch and sniff stickers with the smells of dangerous chemical from your high school chemistry lab."

She didn't actually say that because in 5th grade I was in a French school in Lafontaine, Ontario. And my teacher was male. His name was Mr. ------ (real name censored by DB).

Anyway, Mr. Narcissist, clinging to life as he was, conjured up the Ghost of Christmas Past and the soul of the English language, and in his best Received Pronounciation, rasped out the following words:

"I've got you now, Mr. Haiku!"

"Take this!

"Get thee to a nunnery: why wouldst thou be a
breeder of sinners? I am myself indifferent honest;
but yet I could accuse me of such things that it
were better my mother had not borne me: I am very
proud, revengeful, ambitious, with more offenses at
my beck than I have thoughts to put them in,
imagination to give them shape, or time to act them
in. What should such fellows as I do crawling
between earth and heaven? We are arrant knaves,
all; believe none of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery."

Mr. Haiku frowned, opened his mouth to utter his killing-blow, the final Haiku that Mr. N would ever hear. Instead, he quivered in wonder at the depth of emotion, self-reflection and command of the language displayed by this man with a license to kill. He felt like Ophelia for a second and stroked his own soft, downy cheek gently, dreaming of his childhood dream to be Ms. Haiku.

And then the words choked into his mouth, and sallied forth thus:

"Domo arigato, Mister Roboto!
Domo (whoop, whoop, whoohooo, whoop, whoop, whowowoo)"

Then he pitched forward and fell to the ground dead.

Mr. N picked himself up off the ground and said, to himself, with a smirk:

"I never liked small men."

Exeunt.