[Ravensfort] (no subject)

[jacinth]

Oh, Athaulf.... you SLAY me! My sides hurt from laughing!!

---------- Original Message ----------------------------------
From: "Charley Atchley" <Charley at lcc.net>
Reply-To: ravensfort at ansteorra.org
Date: Fri, 20 Jul 2001 11:49:12 -0500

>After that last bit of frivolity I was thinking how different some of the
>great moments of the past would have been if people had all of the
>electronic crap that we do now.
>
>
>Vision one-
>The smoke hangs thick and the winter winds howl outside in the long
>darkness. A bard that looks like he has spent many years around fires like
>this one, steps up on the main table and takes his harp in hand and strums a
>few bars. Then he explains that he will be performing an epic that he has
>spent several years composing. This is the first time that I have publicly
>performed this work, I hope you enjoy it. I call it Beowulf, and if you want
>you can down load a copy of the lyrics into your Palm pilot at the back of
>the room if you have a copy of SaxonReader 2.0 or higher installed. He
>contemplatively strums a few more cords and asks that everyone please turn
>off all cell pones and beepers for the duration of the performance.
>Then with a soft, rich, golden, voice and fingers gliding he sings:
>
>HWÆT, WE GAR-DEna in geardagum,
>þeodcyninga þrym gefrunon,
>hu ða æþelingas ellen fremedon!
>oft Scyld Scefing sceaþena þreatum,
>monegum mægþum meodosetla ofteah,
>egsode eorlas, syððanærest wearð
>feasceaft funden; he þæs frofre gebad,
>weox under wolcnum weorðmyndum þah,
>
>(Insert the sound of a Nokia phone playing Louie Louie)
>
>oð þæt him æghwylc ymbsittendra
>
>(Hello)
>
>ofer hronrade hyran scolde,
>
>(Hi Baby!)
>
>gomban gyldan; þæt wæs god cyning!
>
>(Oh! God thats SO! COOL!)
>
>Ðæm eafera wæs æfter cenned
>
>(Can I call you back latter?)
>
>geong in geardum, þone God sende
>
>(NO! I promise I won't get too drunk)
>
>folce to frofre; fyrenðearfe ongeat,
>
>(Love you! *smack* *smack* )
>
>þe hie ær drugon aldorlease
>
>(No! I'm not trying to brush you off!)
>
>lange hwile; him þæs Liffrea,
>
>(Well everyone is staring at me!)
>
>wuldres Wealdend woroldare forgeaf,
>
>(Come on baby! Don't be that way!)
>
>Beowulf wæs breme --- blæd wide sprang---
>
>(Bye)
>
>Scyldes eafera Scedelandum in.
>Swa sceal geong guma gode gewyrcean,
>fromum feohgiftumon fæder bearme,
>
>
>=========================================================================================================================Vision two-
>An English army waits the dawn. They know that they are out numbered twenty
>to one by the French.
>
>WESTMORELAND. O a fax I senteth, a request for
>    But one ten thousand of those men in England
>    That do no work to-day besides playing FreeCell!
>
>  KING. What's he that requisitions so?
>    My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;
>    The end user agreement states that;
>    If we are enow, but twenty at a time may play
>    The fewer men, the greater share of band width.
>    God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
>    It only slows the game server down to a crawl.
>    By Jove, I am not covetous for business applications,
>    Nor care I who doth feed upon my Cheetos;
>    It yearns me not if men find my garments stained;
>    Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
>    But if it be a sin to covet Mountain Dew and Diablo II,
>    I am the most offending soul alive.
>    No, faith, my coz, wish not a player from England.
>    God's peace! I would not lose so great a game.
>    One man more would take from me my Mace of Lightning Destruction.
>    For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
>    Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host server,
>    That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
>    Is a faithless nerd, with an anemic computer
>    This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.
>    He that outlives this day, will be at least level 32,
>    He that shall live this day, and see his computer become obsolete,
>    Will yearly feast in front of his neighbors,
>    And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.'
>    Then will he strip his sleeve and show his tattoos,
>    And say 'It was so koowl. We played thirty levels on Crispian's day.'
>    Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
>    But he'll remember, with advantages,
>    What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
>    Familiar in his mouth as household words-
>    Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
>    Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-
>
>
>
>   -.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
>Sometimes human beings are very much like bees. Bees are fiercely protective
>of their hive, provided you are outside it. Once you're in, the workers sort
>of assume that it must have been cleared by management and take no notice;
>various freeloading insects have evolved a mellifluous existence because of
>this very fact. Humans act the same way.
>- Good Omens, by Terry Pratchet and Neil Gaiman
>
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