The Game is the marriage of stripcreator and a guy with a ring on his thumb and hair on his back. I've created an entire hobbit orgy on paper. I have all holes and protruberances mapped out. The ugly mess (and its horrible aftermath) is now set in dental wax. It will not melt at room temperature.

Here's how The Game is forced up one nostril and twisted:

• If you want to be a Player, you gotta play. If, for example, you're the fourth player to declare himself a Player, you'll be the Fourth Player.
  
• Once there are 5 or more Players, The Game will suck major ass. The Game Master will hose around on the computer machine, presenting the Player with two or more incoherent rants.
  
• The Player posts a message telling the Game Master to go fuck a toaster.
  
• The Game Master will post the police report that arises from this decision.
  
• If the Player dies, their life is over. The next Player is given the previous player's stapler.
  
• And so The Game goes. Players only love you when they're playing. Winners they will come and they will go.
  
• There are many ways to die, but only one way to cream your Levis.
  
• If The Game is not a shambling mockery of all your beliefs by the time all Players have had a turn, each Player will be given an opportunity to throw himself in front of a dump truck.
  
• The Player that Beats The Game is declared DJ Jazzy DefMeister. The DJ Jazzy DefMeister will be given the opportunity to mix some wiggy beats and bomb needle drops.
  
• The DJ Jazzy DefMeister can throw down.
  
• The Game Master is having boiled potatoes.
  
• Do not speak directly to the Game Master unless it is to serve a subpoena, make a homosexual advance, or ask him to mow your lawn. The Charge shall be Forty Dollars American.
  
• If you do speak to the Game Master about anything other than these three things, he shall smite you with a boiled potato.
  
• Other than those concerning the Game Master, there are no rules concerning weird fetishes in The Game thread.
  
• If by Friday evening there are 5 or more Players, The Game will tank like Enron encased in lead encased in cement encased in lead again.
  

Is the boiled potato encased in lead, or can I take the stapler from the previous Player and shove it up DJ Jazzy DefMeister's ass as he mows my lawn? That would make me cream someone else's Levis...or do I need a subpoena first? Otherwise, I'll have to put my clothes on the lower peg first, then get a haircut, then fuck the toaster...but only after I've paid Fleetwood Mac Forty Dollars American to throw themselves in front of dump truck. And do I need the police report to have butter and sour cream added to said potato? That would be dope.

Boorite, this is a summons for you to appear in court, you sexy hunk of camp-as-all-hell manflesh. Incidentally, your lawn is looking tatty.

quote:

---

And so The Game goes. Players only love you when they're playing. Winners they will come and they will go.

---

I love you, Boorite

quote:

---

the proper response to all the above is either;

Boo, you magnificent bastard! or
I love you.

take yer pick.

---

quote:

---

I love you, Boorite

---

quote:

---

...but only after I've paid Fleetwood Mac Forty Dollars American to throw themselves in front of dump truck.

---

People said they loved The Game, but nobody played.

You said it yourself: Players only love you when they're playing.

PROGRAM! PREPARE YOURSELF FOR IMMEDIATE DE-RESOLUTION!

I'd love to paint you while you fuck that toaster.

Wait, if we're throwing Fleetwood Mac in front of a dump truck, can I get a special dispensation for Lindsey Buckingham? Behind all the 70s FM rock cheese, he's a hell of a guitar player. Plus, I secretly like "Go Your Own Way."