i meant to make this back when we still had 27 contestants.

my brain sings this while i stare at the internet.
he's got the body of a cat and the face of a cat...


the Metal Gear Collab submissions are due on May 20. you can see mine once the collab happens.

does anyone here who isnt a girl think they might be able to do some voice work? you dont get paid, but you'll be immortalized in a cartoon on the interweb.

say something here and i will email you with details.



also, hofmann lives his last bicycle day.

i had a large and excellent function to attend, and did not have time to say that Thursday was nihil-and-rat.com's birthday. neat.

sometimes, Betty White shows up in my dreams. it's rare, but she does. i don't know much about Betty White, and i barely ever see her. sometimes she's on TV promoting pet medicine or something. the last time i saw her in a dream, the setting was a sort of large hotel, and someone was forcibly injected with a drug.

im not much of a star wars fan, either, but star wars sometimes shows up in dreams. either as sheets (i never had), toys (i dont have), or as a totally different version of the movies set in a seemingly reoccuring area of space. they have little in common with the existing movies. the latest one involved people playing chess on a ship, while one of the guys kept putting the chess pieces in his mouth. meanwhile, a group was building up "ambient energy" for a pregnant lady.

various Snake designs by Nihil and Mrs. Rat that did not make the final cut.
600x800, 2 clicks deep.

we have tickets to the deathklok concert.

ticketmaster bites dicks.

opinions are very important make sure you tell everyone what yours are.

mini hitlers is a slimier hint of elm rhinitis with the shin limiter. specifically irish tin elm.

in response to a post about water boarding:


mrnihil: liberals ruin everything with their stupid bigoted ideas.

back in the real world

Main Entry: 1tor·ture
Pronunciation: \ˈtȯr-chər\
Function: noun
Etymology: Middle French, from Old French, from Late Latin tortura, from Latin tortus, past participle of torquēre to twist; probably akin to Old High German drāhsil turner, Greek atraktos spindle
Date: 1540
1 a: anguish of body or mind : agony b: something that causes agony or pain
2: the infliction of intense pain (as from burning, crushing, or wounding) to punish, coerce, or afford sadistic pleasure
3: distortion or overrefinement of a meaning or an argument : straining

why bother with obscure, legal definitions when the dictionary clearly spells it out? </mrnihil>


tiger0lily: hmmm, "anguish of body or MIND" yeah, damn them liberals, idiot </tiger0lily>

gryn: "something that causes agony or pain"

Have you been waterboarded, lately?

If not, please allow me. </gryn>


--------------------------------------------

hei gang i jus got back form the internut and hei ges wut the intrenit is smrt hope yall liek it, thnaks al gor!

i've got a song stuck in my head, and it goes like this:


ELBOW MACARONI EL-BOW MACARO-NI ELBOW MA-CA-RO-NI EL-BOW MAC-A-RO-NI
EL-BOW MACA-RONI EL-BOW MACA-RONI EL-BOW MACA-RONI
ELBOW MACARONI EL-BOW MACARO-NI ELBOW MA-CA-RO-NI EL-BOW MAC-A-RO-NI
EL-BOW MACA-RONI EL-BOW MACA-RONI EL-BOW MACA-RONI
ELBOW MACARONI EL-BOW MACARO-NI ELBOW MA-CA-RO-NI EL-BOW MAC-A-RO-NI
EL-BOW MACA-RONI EL-BOW MACA-RONI EL-BOW MACA-RO-NI

Ultimate Smart Alliance #03. opens in a new window at NARC.

i thought about building a sand castle. then i didn't. it was tuesday. later, i reconsidered, but didn't want to make one out of sand. what else could i use? paper? this old phone? a tennis racket with DNA on it? 10 minutes passed before i broke my gaze from this racket. i wonder who it belonged to. clearly, it was broken, like someone beat it against a tree. it was caked in dust and...

people down the hall started complaining about the heat. their complaints sounded like dogs barking, but not like real dogs barking. more like those fake little dogs that make little yipping sounds. if you put those sounds in a blender with the sound of a hacksaw cutting through a leg bone, then turned the blender on... that's what this sounded like. it made me want to drink until i was so full of alcohol, the fumes killed everyone in the building. the concept reminded me of the bug-killing jars we used in school to kill the bugs for our bug collections. science projects. teaching children to kill. for the next thirty minutes, i tried to wrap my mind around a science project within a science project.

when i'd had enough, i realized my hands were cold. and frost bitten. how could anyone else be hot in here? i began to think they were talking in water-cooler code, but quickly dismissed the idea. it grew colder. my breath solidified in the air and crashed to the ground. by the end of the day, shattered ice scattered the floor. the mailman slipped and died. he was blue before he hit the ground. i didn't care because he didn't have any mail for me. instead, he had come in here to talk, but i did not want to listen to any of his stories because they were all the same.

in the mailman's stories, a protagonist would encounter an antagonist and an object. the object was good or bad. when they met, the antagonist was always much more powerful than the protagonist. over the course of the story, the protagonist would eat an assortment of pills, gradually becoming more powerful and more intelligent than the antagonist. they would meet between 3 and 6 times, and at their last meeting, the protagonist would cave the antagonist's skull in with the object that was good or bad. these stories always bored me, and i would tell him this. his mustache would smile, wink... then, a sucking sound. the mailman was gone until tomorrow.

now, he was dead. and it grew colder still. so cold, i wanted a sandwich. i began to rearrange the letters in "sandwich," trying to form new words. the cold became very distracting, and i gave up. fourty-five minutes passed in buzzing silence.

an assignment i once had required me to infiltrate the Bizzzzzzzong Corporation. intel had gathered strong evidence that this mega-company was working on a head teleporter, which allowed the user to teleport his or her head right onto a target's body. i giggled throughout my entire briefing, and finally asked if there was a pile of heads amassing somewhere. this seemed to irritate the mission coordinator, Mrs. Longbody, but her seriousness quickly faded and she began to laugh, too.

she further explained that yes, there is a pile of heads, their necks sliced with the greatest of precision, and though they appeared in no way cauterized, they remained unbloodied. a pile of these oddities marked a back alley on Banglor Street. local homeless minions had taken to calling it Head Pile Alley. i thought this was a terrible name, and told Mrs. Longbody as much. she apologized, but i really wondered if she was sincere. although i dont have exact numbers, i know that her paycheques are large. so much so, that most banks assume they are gag cheques, like the ones you see in those fake prize schemes. this, i thought, raised serious questions about her authenticity.

feh. the rich. with their apologies.

later, we hugged, and i embarked on my mission. the sky looked like a bruise run through the invert filter of a photo-altering computer programme. puddles of rain and synthetic oils mixed into something that smelled like the blood of a sick person. i went back inside, having decided it would be cooler to deploy by helicopter. while i waited, i ate some spicy chicken wings. by the time the helicopter arrived, i was drunk and it was time to do... whatever i'm supposed to be doing. which i did, and i did it awesomely. in fact, i won numerous secret awards for this mission, and got a really high rating.

in my office is a picture of me shaking hands with the real president, not the fake one. the real one is a ghost with cybernetic arms, which he needs in order to sign documents and wield his stamp of approval. it is one of my favourite pictures, though they used Kodak film, rather than Fuji, and it leans more toward an orange tint, while i prefer blue. that aside, it is a good picture that i like to stand around and look at when i talk to people on the phone.

Burson McNab's squinty little eyes made other people angry. if not for his eyes, Burson might have been considered an attractive man, but now, in middle age, his face was a puckered bruise. people in general would often become so infuriated by simply looking at Burson McNab that they would punch him in the face. over the years, this has led to the accumulation of an improbable number of medical bills.

in most places, punching a man in the face is considered to be illegal, providing it is mostly unprovoked, and in the modern age, a punched man is likely to sue over being punched. through settlements alone, a punched man can take the puncher's house, shoes, tie, wife, cat, up to one child, and lawnmower, provided it is less than five years old.

people are afraid not to settle. they cannot be blamed for this- a ruling against them in court, which is practically assured, would cost them more money than they will ever own. one man refused to settle and was sentenced to be compressed into a precious stone, like a diamond but brownish-yellow. the judge presiding over the case autographed the stone, and the punched man sold it over the internet for enough money to buy his own hospital. now, he never has to pay medical bills.

Burson McNab would like to buy his own hospital, but his squinty little eyes make both judges, lawyers, and jurors angry, usually resulting in a sort of courtroom brawl, only every fist is hitting the same, single face. this is how the scene differs from an actual brawl.

on days when Burson McNab wears sunglasses, people do not recognize him, and are often curious about his puckered bruise face. when they ask him about it, Burson will smile and say it is a strange birthmark. the asker will then say "Ah," and nod thoughtfully. once Burson McNab is out of earshot, they will confess to themselves that they are jealous of his strange birthmark.