A. Huxley
c/o Goulburn Correctional Centre
PO Box 264
Maud St
Goulburn NSW 2580

Job wanted: Unemployable

(Try to read between the lines a little bit more)

1月15日　「Tour Diary」

Deciding to take a vacation?  Now where can you go?  Ireland?  A bit too cold this time of the year.  Paris?

No.

A week at the cricket in Johannesburg.  England touring.  Readers will be spared the tedium of my memoirs; I confine myself here to the salient points:

Morning session.  Arrived at Wanderers for second day of fourth Test.  Conditions smashing.  Thermoplyae not in attendance, contrary to dream as recorded in {d0×9B5:TERMISFORBIDDEN}.

Lunch.  Can now confirm the thermophantasm’s assessment: J.P. Duminy is, in fact, not hot.

Afternoon session.  Inclement weather; remainder of day’s play called off twenty minutes prior to tea break.  Praise THE LORD for having mercy on the boys.  Returned to rooms at embassy; telegram waiting with tea.  Monsignor Pasco may raise an eyebrow at the allusion, but what sprang to mind was the interclerical salutation of the Greek schismatics.

Hotmodal is in our midst.

He is and ever shall be.

I confess I’m rather bemused by the great man’s invitation. I fear I’ve as much interest in administration as I do in wikis [?women].

Be seeing you.

Today’s mail.

jonirons.net (and, consequently, JFO) has relocated to a new host. Not everything is up to speed. Notable, the pbin doesn’t work, nor do arbitrary prize subdomains. But JFO is obviously up and running, and quite well at that. I’ll get the rest going as soon as possible.

VOICES blurred and incoherent, swirling in vortex loch
Irons’ cries cannot reach Wrk;
Adminstrations fall apart; the Pfhorums cannot hold;
Brainless listing grips the community,
The youthful tide is loosed, and everywhere
The pride of Marathon is drowned;
The best, exhausted, have all 4GOTten, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely TGI:B is at hand.
The Gray Incident! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image from JFO
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the forests of Minnesota
A shape with a bulbous nose and daggers for teeth,
Eyes lidded and craw full of Mariusnet meat,
Is slowly texturing its floors, while all about it
Fly protestant posts of vulturing mappers.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That six months of stony stillness
Were vexed to nightmare by semester’s end,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Simplici7y to be born?

I just wanted to get this off my chest:

6/6/2009 chat cabalism ?

old guard of remakes #alephone, hux imitation fun .

tor nodes? any new ideas? wb cult

ahuxley gone, ahuxley flow beginning, 6/6/2009

no bs

As a member of other ancient gaming communities, ray helps keep track the competition’s ways and means, thereby providing valuable tactical information used to keep Mararthon as unpopular as possible. A few days ago he found this echo in ZZT of our own recent events:

<ray> those zzt motherfuckers are stealing our material
<ray> see http://zzt.belsambar.net/
<ray> of course the people claiming that are the same ones that strangled zzt to death by being obnoxious and insular
<ray> parallels? none

On a related note, tehwastedjamacan has recently gifted us with some Pfhorums downtime by posting his rendition of the Pfhorums, here hosted on imageshack and scaled down significantly from its original resolution. Downloading the original took several minutes to squeeze the behemoth image through appleswitch’s connection, effectively preventing all Pfhorums access for the duration — and again, ray took advantage of the situation, always watchful for ways to strangle Marathon to death.

<@treellama> 12 wgets to 4get

—

Epilogue:

appleswitch@mac.com: S7 and Pfhorums are now on a symmetric 50 Mbps pipe.

I guess at least something good came out of this.

{he chose the right guy to copy from on his final}

Stop coding.

ESB is Empty

ESB’s tent is broken: the last echos of *NM*
Clutch and sink off the top page. The sound of uki
Crosses the blackness, unread. The readers are departed.
JFO, run softly, till I end my post.
ESB bears no new messages, announcements of carnage fests,
Discussions of Eternal, comparisons of weapons, trolls, spammers,
Or other testimony of activity. The readers are departed.
And the CLIQUE, the loitering heirs of the old Bungie crew;
Loched, have left no addresses.
By the ruins of TGI I sat down and wept…
JFO, run softly, till I end my post,
JFO, run softly, for I speak not loud nor boast.

But at my back from an unlocked maintenance closet I hear
The slam of a door, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.