The L is silent.

Posts tagged “Rant

On Grace & Virtue, A Man On A Wire

Bulging Doris wrote in that shamrag article of his that I run a tame BB!  Can you imagine?  What gall, what insult!  I am wounded by the quill! To think he wrestled the authorship of such articles from the Celebrity Reporter himself so that he could be a more upstanding modicum of grace and virtue for the LMB as a field reporter!  Oh, oh, oh how easily they fall! Even worse, some Pontius character suggested this week that PB should try taming me into some infallible type of paladin character.  Oh dear.  My debau Ch’i ry level is unbalanced!  I can take Aegthil being credited to everything from the sun rising in the East to the strength of the tides, but to say that he and Carica constitute the prime offenders in BBB band debauchery level is really too much for this humble muse.  Detractors, beware!

Step 1.  Cut a circle in the box.

The Birgin Brigade.  Black Boots Boptional.

Despite Turbine force-emoting bandmates with sound bugs and disconnections, BB’s modus of operandi this week was extra degenerate (ED) per usual until our finale feature, a new transcription (they’re all here if you’re interested) for bone-broken boozemaven Carica called “The Stripper”, complete with pighorn.  And in proper form, the boxes came off (shall I spare your eyes?)  Pity poor Lauralda, our newest degenerate, for what she had to endure at her first BB.  Merry Yulefestimas, Bree!

Karma is utter bupkis.  Loyalty gets you nowhere.  Honor is for the birds.  Do what you want.

Glug, glug, glug,

~P.B., Over-Stressed, Trapped, Depressive Holiday Neurotic, Most Degenerate

 

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Thoughts for Black Friday Shoppers, Stolen, By PB

The wretched features of ennuyés, the white features of corpses,

the livid faces of drunkards, the sick-gray faces of onanists,

The gash’d bodies of battle-fields, the insane in their strong-door’d rooms,

the sacred idiots, the new-born emerging from gates,

and the dying emerging from gates,

The night pervades and infolds them.

– From The Sleepers by Walt Whitman

And in case that’s just too intellectual or something, just watch this to get the gist of the thing.


In Which P.B. Speaks about the Beard

Pet Biographer just stumbled upon a wonderful new blog that explores the noble role of female dwarfs and the plight they face in exposing their beards and dresses to the public.  P.B. feels for Beard solidarity, as she has faced criticism and mocking from others who find out her Beard is not real in any way, shape, or form.  She is often asked by perturbed individuals hearing her jolting mezzo-soprano for the first time, “Why do it?”

Well, the answer is easy and multi-fold.  The animation for women running (any race) is downright terrible.  It is something downright scary like what people might look for from Brawbie Dolls running down the beach on Baywatch.  P.B. runs and knows women do not run this way.  It drives her crazy, more than it should.  She doesn’t understand how more women are not offended by the terrible job they’ve done for the women characters in their running.  They look like they have mutant hips and that their rotating surgically-enhanced torsos will tear from their bodies at any given moment.  If walking all over Middle Earth was an option, P.B. might be more motivated to level her lady alts.  Instead, she plays them a while and has the sudden urge to burn some bras.  Back to Beor she goes, who is lovable like Santa and does not compel such feminist demands.  Beor only commands pipe-weed and ale which are thankfully in plentiful supply.

Another big reason for Beard justification is that Tolkien was not very kind to his lady characters in LOTR.  Trying to stick to tradition when crafting a character’s story in LOTRO is very boring if you want a heroic woman.  Blahblahblah was a domestic housewife who buried her yaya in some weird year.  She protected the kiddies and farmed while booboo went to war!  Poor Arwen!  Even the beautiful elf-queen who gets the main hunking-king man has a terrible end, dying of heartbreak in the abandoned elf lands after spawning and witnessing her husband’s death.  Come on!  Really!  Build a dam boat and sail to the Grey Havens yourself!  Oh, she lost her Grace and immortality… how terrible, but the male hobbits and dwarf gained it.  They had to beef her and Eowyn up to modern sensibilities in the movies and it made a lot of people upset because that’s not what’s Tolkien wrote.  Much easier to design a background and roleplay a hero or a dastardly heathen as a male character.  If you’re a dastardly heathen as a woman, some just imply you are a slut and don’t think you should be out on the road at night alone.  Fully Bearded, P.B. also never has to worry about those seedy elf types in the Dancing Goat inviting her for a drink or to sit on benches in the back to stare at the wallpaper and she likes that just fine.

Perhaps the final reason is for grouping.  P.B. used to be into raiding shiny gear much more with her old-old kin than she is now, and pick-up groups tend to question raiding directions more if they know there’s a woman behind the mask.  There’s reasons for this she knows and she’s not experienced it with every group, but it’s there for some people, unfortunately – a conception that women gamers can’t know what they’re doing.  No worries for Beor there with his wise old Zeus face.  The gamers trust the nice grandfatherly Gandalfian type.  He knows how it goes.  Oh, sorry we wiped.  Bad luck! *GRIN* Let’s try it again.

P.B. doesn’t see it as a sign of mental illness.  To her it’s just practical and logical and very fun.  P.B.’s fellows at the tavern often say she’s just “one of the guys” since she can play cards and share foul humor with the best of them.  She grew up with a much older brother and all his friends.  Though she may dress up like a girly-girl once-in-a-bluemoon, she’s not much into doing her hair fancy or having the nails done at the salon.  She does not have many lady friends who share her sense of comedy, either, except a few distant arm-waving comrades.  It is a rare and cherished sense of humor though, in her honest opinion.  After spending a day in heels and conservative make-up stilling the tongue, it’s a bit fun to don a Beard and mug-o-beer and go slay a Balrog.  Used to be, anyway.  Hard to find groups to slay Balrogs these days.  Hard to find a job now, too.

Does this make Pet Biographer an awkward, weird person?  A social retard?  Perhaps, but she has always been eccentric and feisty at best, downright loony otherwise, and she apologizes to no one.  More than one suitor has offered to marry her off simply because she likes funk music and plays jazz trombone, so she can delight in that, if not her Beard.