Dear Murderous Cockweasel,
Congratulations! You are an asshole.
You must be enjoying Dark Souls 2, with its exciting new fiction and hearty, vivacious PvP multiplayer. You must be! The exuberance with which you killed me as I stood idle at the Heide’s Tower bonfire proves this. As it proves your worth as a person – yes, you, carrying your ridiculous, giant-ass oh-so-obviously-compensating-for-your-pencil-junk Final Fantasy sword. Because it takes a true player (dare I say, playa) to kill someone WHO ISN’T THERE.
I was not moving. I was standing perfectly still, you beetle-fucking spunkdumpster. And you saw this as an opportunity to hack me into pieces with that absurd Squall Leonheart (Cloud Strife -ed.Dix) sword of yours. I was completely immobile. I did not react in any way to your sudden and unwelcome arrival on the scene. Surely you knew this, despite the myriad inadequacies of your brain, despite the likelihood that most of your concentration is devoted at any given time to reflection on the evident shortcomings of a certain condom, misguidedly selected years ago by your father on the ill-mooned night that the world was profaned by the act of your conception. Surely even the vast, slow movements that pass for thought in the Funyun-ruined anus that is your mind – you toad-licking flapdragon – took note of the fact that I WAS AWAY FROM MY CONTROLLER.
Did it occur to you to wonder where I was? Maybe I was saving a baby from a burning building, or from the jaws of a loose hippopotamus. Or maybe I was just transferring my unmentionables from the washing machine to the dryer. Regardless, did it occur to you to think of my needs? Did it cross your tiny, excrement-smeared comprehension that I had left 64,900 souls on the docks in No-Man’s Wharf, and was looking forward to collecting them? It did not! Because you are a canker blossom, a cancerous defacer of God’s creation.
So good on you, you mealy, fish-stroking, terrifyingly stupid half-excuse for a knob goblin. Well done! Enemy ahead and therefore hurrah for beating to a pulp in short fine work! You killed a defenseless camper. Not a camper as in “that person is camping the loot/spawn point/whatever,” a camper as in a person at a camp fire, performing the act of camping (out), as in “let’s go camping.”
Most people are useless, but few have a measurable impact on the world. You are an exception, you rot-annealed gunghole. Had your clearly crack-addled mother exposed you at birth rather than allowing you to grow up and leave your plague-glistening red boil on the flesh of humanity, the whole of creation would have been demonstrably improved. Instead, the species has to bear the corpse sucking, mung-spattered dumptruckery that is your family kudzu. Of all the crusty turdstreaks, of all the pus-reeking measles life has vomited forth from its infected bladder of woe, you are surely the prize.
Your existence defiles humanity. I hope you die in a fire.
Also: you owe me 64,900 souls.
Warmest Regards,
Steerpike (the idling knight you killed with your stupid look-at-my-tiny-dick megasword)
God help me but I can’t digest this magnificent banquet in one sitting. I’m gonna need a minute.
…TOAD-LICKING FLAPDRAGON
Also, double points for using Shakespearean references alongside “knob goblin”.
I <3 Steerpike.
“family kudzu”
*blush*
Measure for Measure. Unappreciated masterpiece of belittlement.
Baby elephant video to cheer you up!
http://youtu.be/ON_otYt9MW0?t=18s
I was thinking Midsummer Nights Dream – he must have recycled, the boldfaced cur!
Anyhow, I feel like I should coo something reassuring to soothe your frothing rage, but I’m getting like a years’ worth of material out of this post.
I think I’m sensing some hostility here, Steerpike. And I think it is, at least on two occasions, misplaced!
Firstly, I am sorry to say that you have wrongfully accused Mr. Leonhart (whose name you also misspelled) of having a ginormous murdering implement. This is just patently untrue, sir. You are thinking of Cloud Strife. Yes, it is somewhat easy to get any given PSX-era brooding spiky-haired protagonist confused with another, but at least give Mr. Leonhart a little credit. His sword, as swords go, isn’t that big. Yes, it has a gun in it. But it isn’t that big, really.
Secondly, I don’t know what you have against hippopotami, but I detect some deep issues here. Yes, they are murderous beasts, that much I will grant you, and the concept of one clutching an infant jealously in its jaws is indeed terrifyingly plausible; but to further imply that such a hippopotamus would be, by its very nature, loose! No, sir, that I will not abide. I have no doubt that certain individual hippopotami have, upon occasion, enjoyed certain indiscretions, perhaps with little regard for the niceties of sexual fidelity, but I do not appreciate your lumping the murder-hippos in with such hippoprostiti by default. Hippos have a diverse and vibrant culture.
Thank you and good day.
Curses! I stand corrected in the matter of Mr. Leonhart’s name. Even as I wrote that I was wondering if it was the other one with the great big sword.
But hippos, those things are whores. You walk down the Nile and three or four of them will proposition you within the span of a few cubits. I’ve never known a hippopotamus that wasn’t loose. They could learn a bit about decorum from the rhinoceros family.
In fairness to the creatures, I was not actually rescuing a baby from one. Nor would I try to rescue a baby from one, because any baby dumb enough to get close to a hippopotamus probably deserves its fate. Where are the parents in all this? Why should I be responsible for saving the baby?
Steerpike, considering I just threw together a I-don’t-want-to-do-my-real-job-so-I’ll-write-a-dissertation-on-Batman comment, my first thought regarding the baby question is:
You’d make a terrible Batman.
I would be a FANTASTIC Batman, thank you very much. I’d probably want to hit the gym once or twice before donning the cowl, but other than that he and I are practically the same person.
As Batman’s inner monologue remarked in Hush, “Fundamentally, Clark Kent is a good person. And fundamentally, I’m not.”
BAM! I AM THE NIGHT
Definitely sensing hostility here as well. I guess you just need to “git gud” son!
Hahahahahahahahaha. This is marvellous!
By which I mean, of course, I am sorry for your loss.
How very Dark Souls that even idle at a bonfire didn’t prove safe. 🙂
“Die in a fire” is sort of symmetrical, I suppose, considering you died in a bonfire.
You always make me laugh, Steerpike.
Thanks for that, though maybe a bit overkill. The same thing happened to me. I left my controller for five minutes and when I returned, my character was undead. I had just become human and had plans and I hadn’t seen an invader since I started the game. I can’t understand how an invader could attack a helpless player and I wanted to tell him off.
Confession: I don’t think I would hesitate to kill someone I found idle. Welcome to Dark Souls! 🙂 🙂
Steerpike: you know the PS3 has a “Recently Met” section just above your friends list. Please tell me you see ‘synbotch’ appear at the same time as this transgression.
And uh, yeah, what he said: This Is Dark Souls. Or like Will Smith said, welcome to Earth.
I hope Dark Souls 3 takes place in Flint.
“Of all the kingdoms to have risen and fallen on this very spot, this one surely is the crustiest, the most toad-licked, the most Funyon-ruined of all the kingdoms. Let there be Blight.”
Lastly, it’s only sixty-four thousand souls. I can lend you sixty-four thousand souls. Want some souls? You’ll recover! But in the mean time, please: more stream of consciousness rants.
“I would be a FANTASTIC Batman” – Steerpike
—-
COMMISSIONER GORDON: Batpike, a loose hippopotamus has kidnapped a baby and is threatening to eat it or something!
BATPIKE: (raspily) Were the kid’s parents killed in front of it while away from their controllers?
COMMISSIONER GORDON: Well, no, but I don’t see what that–
BATPIKE: (raspily) Were they just minding their own damn business at a campfire? Did the killer take sixty-four thousand souls?!
COMMISSIONER GORDON: No, the parents are alive, they just can’t really handle a hippo on their own…
BATPIKE: (raspily) NOT MY PROBLEM.
There is a rush of wind as BATPIKE vanishes from the rooftop, leaving GORDON alone in the stark light cast by the TAPSIGNAL.
It wasn’t me!!! It, you know, could just as well have been me.
Clever column–great rant. Clever comments. Great fun to read.
Obviously you need to start pretending to stand perfectly still and then, when the griefers show up to pick off the idler, suddenly wipe them out with a surprise attack.