Weathercock
Your Swimsuit Jumped Over Its Own Weathercock, You Liar! A (questionably) ero visual novel whose text is entirely driven by Markov chains, with the exception of a few strategically-placed ellipses. ∞
Sign-feld
XBone
Look, Microsoft dum-dums, it’s super simple. You think this is complicated. That is not the case. It is not complicated.
TV: Do not want.
SPORTS: Do not want.
CALL OF DUTY: Do not want.
INFRARED LIVINGROOM PORNOSCAN: Do not want.
DIGITAL CLOUD PHANTOM SUPERSTRUCTURE IDENTITY GREASE: Do not want.
CANINE HOMINY RETROACTIVE ZYGOTE AMBERGRIS ROCKET MOUSTACHE: Do not want.
A minute and a half of predictable but amusing cluelessness:
The Curation of Time
Friday Night’s Alright
Boomshanka
Swansong
This 9 minute and 39 seconds of Drunk Ron Swanson dancing to Daft Punk is everywhere the last couple of days, but it pales into insignificance (and comes much later than) the canonical Drunk Ron Swanson dot com, where he has been dancing nonstop for at least 14 months. You’re welcome. ∞
Cerveza Superior
Single Serving Site Alert
Just a quick note for those few, those brave, those patient who haven’t completely migrated to Facef*ck or ThighSpace or Twatter or whatever social disease network is the flavour of the moment, and still stop by or RSSize the ‘bottle to get an occasional taste of Grandpa Wonderchicken’s Old-Style Longform Bullshit.
A while back, one morning, when I heard that Kevin Rose (of Digg and the late, not terribly lamented Pownce) had a new Twitter-parasite site called WeFollow, I lost my shit (“You might follow, you tiny-dreamed weasel farts!” said I to myself, or something of the sort.) and bought a domain, threw up a WordPress site, wrote a screed and did a couple of photoshops, all before lunch. If I was that productive all the time, I’d be… well, I wouldn’t have the time for insane vanity mini-projects like that, I guess.
Still: here it is, the lastest addition to the burgeoning Wonderchicken Industries™ Network. Share and enjoy.
First Paragraphs From Stories I’ll Never Write Episode 2
The nails didn’t hurt nearly as much as I’d expected going in, but the pain bombshell blossomed as they dropped the post into the hole and levered us upright.
My brother’s head was wobbling a bit on our shared shoulder as I glanced over, but he felt my eyes on him and snapped back into his customary 200-watt anchorman idiot grin and winked. “It’s not like we didn’t expect this, eh?” I couldn’t argue. We’d had a pretty good run.
Raising his face to the sky, still grinning, he bellowed “Father! Why has thou forsaken us, dude?” My conjoined brother, the son of god. Smart-ass to the last.
First Paragraphs From Stories I’ll Never Write Episode 1
They beat him hard hauling him out of St Paul’s after he crapped in front of the High Altar, but he barely felt it through the hockey pads and the exhilaration. Light rain was falling in London, and it cooled his face as they kicked him to the curb. One of them spit on him as they walked away, dusting their hands. He was alive and unhurt and shaking as the adrenalin ebbed.
The first skirmish had ended in success. His war on god was underway.
[Sometimes entire paragraphs just appear in my brain, right before I fall asleep. It happens a lot. I'm going to try and start remembering them. So, this.]