In effort for more effective moderation, Melkor unchained has announced there will be a few new moderators, drawn from general.
What?
Alright, fine, if you want MORE back story, read on:
In the late 1970's I had recently retired from my position teaching cocksmanship at Hereford. I got an encrypted postcard from my old friend, "Arserot" Archer, who was then with MI 6, explaining that Her Majesty once again needed The Rifle Brigade. I was briefed, equiped, blindfolded, buggered, and put on a plane to Afghanistan.
There, I met my contact agent, Ara Durrani. From the moment I saw her, I was in love, and also quite turgid. She was everything a woman should be, beautful, educated, deadly, and under orders from her government to accomodate my needs. That night, as we sat on the verranda of our safehouse in Kabul, I told her how I felt. She thought for a moment, and then turned, wistfully, her eyes alighting to the moon, and in a gentle, dulcid voice, she said something to me in Pashtun that was so exquisitely lyrical, I realized I had never before known what sound was meant for. I remember every syllable, to this day. I late asked a waiter what it means, and he said it translates to "Pasty mustached asshole, I'd rather fuck a goat."
So, the next day I was out getting some hunting in before heading back, when I heard some kind of grunting from a nearby bush. Fancying I'd bag myself one of whatever the local game animal is, I switched my Bren gun to single fire and fired into the foliage. It was then that I discovered that the Bren Light Machine Gun is not a select fire weapon, and in fact only fires full auto. Apparently, the switch I'd been throwing all these years was the safety, which is broken.
So, after emptying a machine gun into the bushes at waste level, I went in to see if there was anything left of the taxidermist. There, I found six dead Russian infantry with their pants down, riddled with .303 caliber, and Ara prone on the ground, in a clear state of duress. Apparently the Ivans were about to enjoy some sport with her when fine Enfield made lead found their bellies, except the fellow on top of her, who took it in the head.
When she saw me, Ara said "Praise Allah, they were going to...to...and you...you...I'm sorry, Englishmen. I mistook you. You are a brave and good man, and I'm sorry for doubting you. You are truly a heroic and virtuous man to take on such superior numbers to protect me!"
And I said, "Yes. Yes, I am."
We made love in the clearing, after I moved the Russian, of course. Anyway, after that, I wrote up my report for our American allies, that the Russians were planning to withdraw, and we need not further involve ourselves in Afghanistan. The Mujahadeen had it well in hand, we would have no further problems from this section of the world.
Nine months later, I got the letter, and a little black and white photo of a beautiful baby girl. I wrote back that I had been killed, but Ara didn't buy it, clever lass she was. We discussed it (always in code of course, referring to the situation as "that land mine we stepped on"), and it was decided that for her safety, the child must never know she was the child of international spies. We swore, on our honor and any future potential of being moderators on an internet board, that we would never tell her who she really is. Since I was Anglican at the time, and Ara was Muslim, we drew up some calculations and determined that, theologically, halfway between the Church of England and Islam is the Catholics. (Well, its actually the Scientologists that are closer, but we thought the child was rogered enough as it is). So, we left her on the doorstep of a nice Catholic family.
That's right, Katganistan. I am your father.
Search your feelings, you know it to be true.
What?
Alright, fine, if you want MORE back story, read on:
In the late 1970's I had recently retired from my position teaching cocksmanship at Hereford. I got an encrypted postcard from my old friend, "Arserot" Archer, who was then with MI 6, explaining that Her Majesty once again needed The Rifle Brigade. I was briefed, equiped, blindfolded, buggered, and put on a plane to Afghanistan.
There, I met my contact agent, Ara Durrani. From the moment I saw her, I was in love, and also quite turgid. She was everything a woman should be, beautful, educated, deadly, and under orders from her government to accomodate my needs. That night, as we sat on the verranda of our safehouse in Kabul, I told her how I felt. She thought for a moment, and then turned, wistfully, her eyes alighting to the moon, and in a gentle, dulcid voice, she said something to me in Pashtun that was so exquisitely lyrical, I realized I had never before known what sound was meant for. I remember every syllable, to this day. I late asked a waiter what it means, and he said it translates to "Pasty mustached asshole, I'd rather fuck a goat."
So, the next day I was out getting some hunting in before heading back, when I heard some kind of grunting from a nearby bush. Fancying I'd bag myself one of whatever the local game animal is, I switched my Bren gun to single fire and fired into the foliage. It was then that I discovered that the Bren Light Machine Gun is not a select fire weapon, and in fact only fires full auto. Apparently, the switch I'd been throwing all these years was the safety, which is broken.
So, after emptying a machine gun into the bushes at waste level, I went in to see if there was anything left of the taxidermist. There, I found six dead Russian infantry with their pants down, riddled with .303 caliber, and Ara prone on the ground, in a clear state of duress. Apparently the Ivans were about to enjoy some sport with her when fine Enfield made lead found their bellies, except the fellow on top of her, who took it in the head.
When she saw me, Ara said "Praise Allah, they were going to...to...and you...you...I'm sorry, Englishmen. I mistook you. You are a brave and good man, and I'm sorry for doubting you. You are truly a heroic and virtuous man to take on such superior numbers to protect me!"
And I said, "Yes. Yes, I am."
We made love in the clearing, after I moved the Russian, of course. Anyway, after that, I wrote up my report for our American allies, that the Russians were planning to withdraw, and we need not further involve ourselves in Afghanistan. The Mujahadeen had it well in hand, we would have no further problems from this section of the world.
Nine months later, I got the letter, and a little black and white photo of a beautiful baby girl. I wrote back that I had been killed, but Ara didn't buy it, clever lass she was. We discussed it (always in code of course, referring to the situation as "that land mine we stepped on"), and it was decided that for her safety, the child must never know she was the child of international spies. We swore, on our honor and any future potential of being moderators on an internet board, that we would never tell her who she really is. Since I was Anglican at the time, and Ara was Muslim, we drew up some calculations and determined that, theologically, halfway between the Church of England and Islam is the Catholics. (Well, its actually the Scientologists that are closer, but we thought the child was rogered enough as it is). So, we left her on the doorstep of a nice Catholic family.
That's right, Katganistan. I am your father.
Search your feelings, you know it to be true.
Anyway, Katganistan, I'm sorry you had to find out like this. But you get your Mod talent from me. Thus, the most reasonable choice for a new mod is myself.
This thread can also be used to discuss what qualities we would like to see in a new mod. Please stay civil with one another, but fair and polite critiques are welcome.
